LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 

MRS.  DONALD  KELLOGG 


Nl-0    iD-^     Koxci.    (>XaA7 


The  Writings  of 
"FIONA    MACLEOD" 


UNIFORM  EDITION 


ARRANGED    BY 

MRS.   WILLIAM    SHARP 


The  Gods  approve  the  depth  and  not  the  tumult  of 
the  soul. 

It  is  loveliness  I  seek,  not  lovely  things. 


The    Divine   Adventure 

lona 
Studies  in  Spiritual  History 


BY 


"FIONA    MACLEOD 

(WILLIAM   SHARP) 


NEW     YORK 

DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 
1911 


Copyright,  1895,  by 
STONE  &   KIMBALL 


Copyright,  1896,  1898,  by 
HARPER   &   BROTHERS 


Copyright,  1901,  1902,  1903,  1905,  by 
THOMAS   B.    MOSHER 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
DUFFIELD   &  COMPANY 


Published,  March,  1910 


THE  TROW   PRESS,    NEW   YORK 


THE    WIND,    SILENCE,    AND    LOVE 

FRIENDS    WHO    HAVE    TAUGHT    ME    MOST: 

BUT  SINCE,  LONG  AGO,  TWO  WHO  ARE  NOT  FORGOTTEN 

WENT  AWAY  UPON  THE  ONE,  AND  DWELL,  THEMSELVES 

REMEMBERING,  IN  THE  OTHER,  I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK 

TO 

E ALASA IDH 

WHOSE    LOVE   AND    SPIRIT    LIVE    HERE   ALSO 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

The  Divine  Adventure i 

lONA 91 

By  Sundown  Shores: 

By  Sundown  Shores 253 

The  Wind,  Silence,  and  Love     .      .  263 

Barabal:  a  Memory 268 

The  White  Heron 276 

The  Smoothing  of  the  Hand      .      .  292 

The  White  Fever 298 

The  Sea-Madness 303 

Earth,  Fire,  and  Water  ....  308 

From  "Green  Fire": 

The  Herdsman 319 

Fragments 383 

A  Dream 405 

Notes 411 

Bibliographical  Note 433 

By  Mrs.  William  Sharp. 


THE  DIVINE  ADVENTURE 


'^Let  the  beginning,  I  say,  of  iJiis  little  book,  as  if  it 
were  some  lamp,  make  it  clear  thai  a  divine  miracle 

was  tnanifested." 

St.  Adamnan,  Book  ii.  c.  i. 


The  Divine  Adventure 


"We  were  three:  the  Body,  the  Will,  and  the  Soul. 
.  .  .  The  Will,  the  Soul,  which  for  the  first  time 
had  gone  alone  outside  of  our  common  home,  had 
to  take  upon  themselves  bodily  presences  likewise." 
— The  Divine  Adventure. 

I  remember  that  it  was  on  St.  John's  Eve 
we  said  we  would  go  away  together  for  a 
time,  but  each  independently,  as  three  good 
friends.  We  had  never  been  at  one,  though 
we  had  shared  the  same  home,  and  had  en- 
joyed so  much  in  common;  but  to  each,  at 
the  same  time,  had  come  the  great  desire  of 
truth,  than  which  there  is  none  greater  save 
that  of  beauty. 

We  had  long  been  somewhat  weary.  No 
burden  of  years,  no  serious  ills,  no  grief 
grown  old  in  its  own  shadow,  distressed  us. 
We  were  young.  But  we  had  known  the  two 
great  ends  of  life — to  love  and  to  suffer.  In 
deep  love  there  is  always  an  inmost  dark 
flame,  as  in  the  flame  lit  by  a  taper :  I  think 

3 


The  Divine  Adventure 

it  is  the  obscure  suffering  upon  which  the 
Dancer  Hves.  The  Dancer! — Love,  who  is 
Joy,  is  a  leaping  flame :  he  it  is  who  is  the  son 
of  that  fabled  planet,  the  Dancing  Star. 

On  that  St.  John's  Eve  we  had  talked  with 
friends  on  the  old  mysteries  of  this  day  of 
pagan  festival.  At  last  we  withdrew,  not 
tired  or  in  disagreement,  but  because  the  hid- 
den things  of  the  spirit  are  the  only  realities, 
and  it  seemed  to  us  a  little  idle  and  foolish  to 
discuss  in  the  legend  that  which  was  not  for- 
tuitous or  imaginary,  since  what  then  held 
up  white  hands  in  the  moonlight,  even  now, 
in  the  moonlight  of  the  dreaming  mind, 
beckons  to  the  Divine  Forges. 

We  left  the  low-roofed  cottage  room, 
where,  though  the  window  was  open,  two  can- 
dles burned  with  steadfast  flame.  The  night 
was  listeningly  still.  Beyond  the  fuchsia  bushes 
a  sighing  rose,  where  a  continuous  foamless 
wave  felt  the  silences  of  the  shore.  The 
moonpath,  far  out  upon  the  bronze  sea,  was 
like  a  shadowless  white  road.  In  the  dusk  of 
the  haven  glimmered  two  or  three  red  and 
green  lights,  where  the  fishing-cobles  trailed 
motionless  at  anchor.  Inland  were  shadowy 
hills.  One  of  the  St.  John's  Eve  fires  burned 
on  the  nearest  of  these,  its  cone  blotting  out  a 
thousand  eastern  stars.     The  flame  rose  and 


The  Divine  Adventure 

sank  as  though  it  were  a  pulse:  perhaps  at 
that  great  height  the  sea-wind  or  a  mountain 
air  played  upon  it.  Out  of  a  vast  darkness 
in  the  south  swung  blacker  abysses,  where 
thunders  breathed  with  a  prolonged  and  ter- 
rible sighing;  upon  their  flanks  sheet-light- 
nings roamed. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  little  bay.  Be- 
yond, a  fathom  of  phosphorescence  showed 
that  mackerel  were  playing  in  the  moonshine. 
Near  the  trap-ledges,  which  ran  into  deep 
water  sheer  from  the  goat-pastures,  were 
many  luminous  moving  phantoms:  the  me- 
dusae, green,  purple,  pale  blue,  wandering 
shapes  filled  with  ghostly  fire. 

We  stood  a  while  in  silence,  then  one  of  us 
spoke : 

"  Shall  we  put  aside,  for  a  brief  while,  this 
close  fellowship  of  ours;  and,  since  we  can- 
not journey  apart,  go  together  to  find  if 
there  be  any  light  upon  those  matters  which 
trouble  us,  and  perhaps  discern  things  better 
separately  than  when  trying,  as  we  ever 
vainly  do,  to  see  the  same  thing  with  the 
same  eyes  ?  " 

The  others  agreed.  "  It  may  be  I  shall 
know,"  said  one.  "  It  may  be  I  shall  remem- 
ber," said  the  other. 

"  Then  let  us  go  back  into  the  house  and 

5 


The  Divine  Adventure 

rest  to-night,  and  to-morrow,  after  we  have 
slept  and  eaten  well,  we  can  set  out  with  a 
light  heart." 

The  others  did  not  answer,  for  though  to 
one  food  meant  nothing,  and  to  the  other 
sleep  was  both  a  remembering  and  a  forget- 
ting, each  unwittingly  felt  the  keen  needs  of 
him  whom  they  despised  overmuch,  and 
feared  somewhat,  and  yet  loved  greatly. 


II 


Thus  it  was  that  on  a  midsummer  morn- 
ing we  set  out  alone  and  afoot,  not  bent  for 
any  one  place,  though  we  said  we  would  go 
towards  the  dim  blue  hills  in  the  west,  the 
Hills  of  Dream,  as  we  called  them ;  but, 
rather,  idly  troubled  by  the  very  uncertainties 
which  beset  our  going.  We  began  that  long 
stepping  westward  as  pilgrims  of  old  who 
had  the  Holy  City  for  their  goal,  but  knew 
that  midway  were  perilous  lands. 

We  were  three,  as  I  have  said :  the  Body, 
the  Will,  and  the  Soul.  It  was  strange  for 
us  to  be  walking  there  side  by  side,  each 
familiar  with  and  yet  so  ignorant  of  the 
other.  We  had  so  much  in  common,  and  yet 
were  so  incommunicably  alien  to  one  another. 
6 


The  Divine  Adventure 

I  think  that  occurred  to  each  of  us,  as,  with 
brave  steps  but  sidelong  eyes,  we  passed  the 
fuchsia  bushes,  where  the  wild  bees  hummed, 
and  round  by  the  sea  pastures,  where  white 
goats  nibbled  among  the  yellow  flags,  and 
shaggy  kine  with  their  wild  hill-eyes  browsed 
the  thyme-sweet  salted  grass.  A  fisherman 
met  us.  It  was  old  Ian  Macrae,  whom  I  had 
known  for  many  years.  Somehow,  till  then, 
the  thought  had  not  come  to  me  that  it 
might  seem  unusual  to  those  who  knew  my 
solitary  ways,  that  I  should  be  going  to  and 
fro  with  strangers.  Then,  again,  for  the  first 
time,  it  flashed  across  me  that  they  were  so 
like  me — or  save  in  the  eyes  I  could  myself 
discern  no  difference — the  likeness  would  be 
as  startling  as  it  would  be  unaccountable. 

I  stood  for  a  moment,  uncertain.  "  Of 
course,"  I  muttered  below  my  breath,  "  of 
course,  the  others  are  invisible;  I  had  not 
thought  of  that."  I  watched  them  slowly  ad- 
vance, for  they  had  not  halted  when  I  did. 
I  saw  them  incline  the  head  with  a  grave 
smile  as  they  passed  Ian.  The  old  man  had 
taken  off  his  bonnet  to  them,  and  had  stood 
aside. 

Strangely  disquieted,  I  moved  towards 
Macrae. 

"  Ian,"  I  whispered  rather  than  spoke. 

7 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  Ay,"  he  answered  simply,  looking  at  me 
with  his  grave,  far-seeing  eyes. 

"Ian,  have  you  seen  my  friends  before?" 

"  No,  I  have  never  seen  them  before." 

"  They  have  been  here  for — for — many 
days." 

"  I  have  not  seen  them." 

"  Tell  me ;  do  you  recognise  them  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  them  before." 

"  I  mean,  do  you — do  you  see  any  likeness 
in  them  to  any  you  know  ?  " 

"  No,  I  see  no  likeness." 

"  You  are  sure,  Ian  ?  " 

"Ay,  for  sure.  And  why  not?"  The 
old  fisherman  looked  at  me  with  questioning 
eyes. 

"  Tell  me,  Ian,  do  you  see  any  difference 
in  me  ?  " 

"  No,  for  sure,  no." 

Bewildered,  I  pondered  this  new  mystery. 
Were  we  really  three  personalities,  without  as 
well  as  within? 

At  that  moment  the  Will  turned.  I  heard 
his  voice  fall  clearly  along  the  heather-fra- 
grant air-ledges. 

"  We,  too,  are  bewildered  by  this  mystery," 
he  said. 

So  he  knew  my  thought.  It  was  our 
thought.  Yes,  for  now  the  Soul  turned  also ; 
8 


The  Divine  Adventure 

and  I  heard  his  sunwarm  breath  come  across 
the  honeysuckles  by  the  roadside. 

"  I,  too,  am  bewildered  by  this  mystery," 
he   said. 

"  Ian,"  I  exclaimed  to  the  old  man,  who 
stared  wonderingly  at  us ;  "  Ian,  tell  me  this : 
what  like  are  my  companions ;  how  do  they 
seem  to  you  ?  " 

The  old  man  glanced  at  me,  startled,  then 
rubbed  his  eyes  as  though  he  were  half- 
awakened  from  a  dream. 

"Why  are  you  asking  that  thing?" 

"  Because,  Ian,  you  do  not  see  any  likeness 
in  them  to  myself.  I  had  thought — I  had 
thought  they  were  so  like." 

Macrae  put  his  wavering,  wrinkled  hand 
to  his  withered  mouth.  He  gave  a  chuckling 
laugh. 

"  Ah,  I  understand  now.  It  is  a  joke  you 
are  playing  on  old  Ian." 

"  Maybe  ay,  and  maybe  no,  Ian ;  but  I  do 
want  to  know  how  they  seem  to  you,  those 
two  yonder." 

"  Well,  well,  now,  for  sure,  that  friend  of 
yours  there,  that  spoke  first,  he  is  just  a 
weary,  tired  old  man,  like  I  am  myself,  and 
so  like  me,  now  that  I  look  at  him,  that  he 
might  be  my  wraith.  And  the  other,  he  is  a 
fine  lad,  a  fisher-lad  for  sure,  though  I  fear 

9 


The  Divine  Adventure 

God's  gripped  his  heart,  for  I  see  the  old  an- 
cient sorrow  in  his  eyes." 

I  stared;  then  suddenly  I  understood. 

"  Good-day,  Ian,"  I  added  hurriedly,  "  and 
the  blessing  of  Himself  be  upon  you  and 
yours,  and  upon  the  nets  and  the  boats." 

Then  I  moved  slowly  towards  my  com- 
panions, who  awaited  me.  I  understood 
now.  The  old  fisherman  had  seen  after  his 
own  kind.  The  Will,  the  Soul,  which  for  the 
first  time  had  journeyed  outside  our  com- 
mon home,  had  to  take  upon  themselves  bod- 
ily presences  likewise.  But  these  wavering 
images  were  to  others  only  the  reflection  of 
whoso  looked  upon  them.  Old  Ian  had  seen 
his  own  tired  self  and  his  lost  youth.  With  a 
new  fear  the  Body  called  to  us,  and  we  to 
him ;  and  we  were  one,  yet  three ;  and  so  we 
went  onward  together. 


Ill 


We  were  silent.  It  is  not  easy  for  three, 
so  closely  knit,  so  intimate,  as  we  had  been 
for  so  many  years,  suddenly  to  enter  upon 
a  new  comradeship,  wherein  three  that  had 
been  as  one  were  now  several.  A  new  reti- 
cence had  come  to  each  of  us.     We  walked 

10 


The  Divine  Adventure 

in  silence — conscious  of  the  beauty  of  the 
day,  in  sea  and  sky  and  already  purpling 
moors ;  of  the  white  gulls  flecking  the  azure, 
and  the  yellowhammers  and  stonechats  flit- 
ting among  the  gorse  and  fragrant  bog-myr- 
tle— we  knew  that  none  was  inclined  to 
speak.     Each  had  his  own  thoughts. 

The  three  dreamers — for  so  we  were  in 
that  lovely  hour  of  dream — walked  stead- 
fastly onward.  It  was  not  more  than  an 
hour  after  noon  that  we  came  to  an  inlet 
of  the  sea,  so  narrow  that  it  looked  like  a 
stream,  only  that  a  salt  air  arose  between  the 
irises  which  thickly  bordered  it,  and  that  the 
sunken  rock-ledges  were  fragrant  with  sea- 
pink  and  the  stone-convolvulus.  The  moving 
tidal  water  was  grass-green,  save  where 
dusked  with  long,  mauve  shadows. 

"  Let  us  rest  here,"  said  the  Body.  "  It  is 
so  sweet  in  the  sunlight,  here  by  this  cool 
water." 

The  Will  smiled  as  he  threw  himself  down 
upon  a  mossy  slope  that  reached  from  an 
oak's  base  to  the  pebbly  margins. 

"  It  is  ever  so  with  you,"  he  said,  still 
smiling.  "  You  love  rest,  as  the  wandering 
clouds  love  the  waving  hand  of  the  sun." 

"What  made  you  think  of  that?"  asked 
the  Soul  abruptly,  who  till  that  moment  had 
II 


The  Divine  Adventure 

been  rapt  in  silent  commune  with  his  in- 
most thoughts. 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Because  I,  too,  was  thinking  that  just  as 
the  waving  hand  of  the  sun  beckons  the 
white  wandering  clouds,  as  a  shepherd  calls 
to  his  scattered  sheep,  so  there  is  a  hand 
waving  to  us  to  press  forward.  Far  away, 
yonder,  a  rainbow  is  being  woven  of  sun 
and  mist.  Perhaps,  there,  we  may  come 
upon  that  which  we  have  come  out  to 
see." 

"  But  the  Body  wishes  to  rest.  And,  truly, 
it  is  sweet  here  in  the  sunflood,  and  by  this 
moving  green  water,  which  whispers  in  the 
reeds  and  flags,  and  sings  its  own  sea-song 
the  while." 

"  Let  us  rest,  then." 

And,  as  we  lay  there,  a  great  peace  came 
upon  us.  There  were  hushed  tears  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Soul,  and  a  dreaming  smile  upon 
the  face  of  the  Will,  and,  in  the  serene  gaze 
of  the  Body,  a  content  that  was  exceeding 
sweet.  It  was  so  welcome  to  lie  there  and 
dream.  We  knew  a  rare  happiness  in  that 
exquisite  quietude. 

After  a  time,  the  Body  rose,  and  moved  to 
the  water-edge. 

"  It  is  so  lovely,"  he  said,  "  I  must  bathe  " 

12 


The  Divine  Adventure 

— and  with  that  he  threw  aside  his  clothes, 
and  stood  naked  among  the  reeds  and  yel- 
low flags  which  bordered  the  inlet. 

The  sun  shone  upon  his  white  body,  the 
colour  of  pale  ivory.  A  delicate  shadow 
lightly  touched  him,  now  here,  now  there, 
from  the  sunlit  green  sheaths  and  stems 
among  which  he  stood.  He  laughed  out  of 
sheer  joy,  and  raised  his  arms,  and  made  a 
splashing  with  his  trampling  feet. 

Looking  backward  with  a  blithe  glance,  he 
cried : 

"  After  all,  it  is  good  to  be  alive :  neither 
to  think  nor  to  dream,  but  just  content  to  be." 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  laughed  merrily, 
and,  plunging  forward,  swam  seaward  against 
the  sun-dazzle. 

His  two  companions  watched  him  with 
shining  eyes. 

"  Truly,  he  is  very  fair  to  look  upon," 
said  the  Soul. 

"  Yes,"  added  the  Will,  "  and  perhaps  he 
has  chosen  the  better  part  elsewhere  as 
here." 

"  Can  it  be  the  better  part  to  prefer  the 
things  of  the  moment  to  those  of  Eternity?" 

''What  is  Eternity?" 

For  a  few  seconds  the  Soul  was  silent.  It 
was    not   easy    for    him    to    understand    that 

13 


The  Divine  Adventure 

what  was  a  near  horizon  to  him  was  a  vague 
vista,  possibly  a  mirage,  to  another.  He  was 
ever,  in  himself,  moving  just  the  hither  side 
of  the  narrow  mortal  horizon  which  Eter- 
nity swims  in  upon  from  behind  and  beyond. 
The  Will  looked  at  him  questioningly,  then 
spoke  again : 

"  You  speak  of  the  things  of  Eternity. 
What  is  Eternity  ?  " 

"  Eternity  is  the  Breath  of  God." 

"  That  tells  me  nothing." 

"  It  is  Time,  freed  from  his  Mortality." 

"  Again,  that  tells  me  little.  Or,  rather,  I 
am  no  wiser.     What  is  Eternity  to  usf  " 

"  It  is  our  perpetuity." 

"  Then  is  it  only  a  warrant  against  Death  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  more.  Time  is  our  sphere : 
Eternity  is  our  home." 

''  There  is  no  other  lesson  for  you  in  the 
worm,  and  in  the  dust?" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  brother  ?  " 

"Does  dissolution  mean  nothing  to  you?" 

"  What  is  dissolution  ?  " 

It  was  now  the  Will  who  stared  with  won- 
dering eyes.  To  him  that  question  was  as 
disquieting  as  that  which  he  had  asked  the 
Soul.  It  was  a  minute  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"  You    ask   me    what    is    dissolution  ?     Do 

14 


The  Divine  Adventure 

you  not  understand  what  death  means  to 
nief  " 

"  Why  to  you  more  than  to  me,  or  to  the 
Body  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  A  change  from  a  dream  of  Beauty,  to 
Beauty." 

"  And  at  the  worst  ?  " 

"  Freedom :  escape  from  narrow  walls — 
often  dark  and  foul." 

"  In  any  case  nothing  but  a  change,  a 
swift  and  absolute  change,  from  what  was  to 
what  is?" 

"  Even  so." 

"  And  you  have  no  fear  ?  " 

"  None.     Why  should  I  ?  " 

"Why  should  you  not?" 

Again  there  was  a  sudden  silence  between 
the  two.     At  last  the  Soul  spoke : 

"  Why  should  I  not  ?  I  cannot  tell  you. 
But  I  have  no  fear.    I  am  a  Son  of  God." 

"And  we?" 

"  Ah,  yes,  dear  brother :  you,  too,  and  the 
Body." 

"  But  we  perish !  " 

"  There  is  the  resurrection  of  the  Body." 

"  Where— when  ?  " 

"  As  it  is  written.     In  God's  hour." 

"  Is  the  worm  also  the  Son  of  God  ?  " 

15 


The  Divine  Adventure 

The  Soul  stared  downward  into  the  green 
water,  but  did  not  answer,  A  look  of 
strange  trouble  was  in  his  eyes. 

"  Is  not  the  Grave  on  the  hither  side  of 
Eternity?" 

Still  no  answer. 

"  Does  God  whisper  beneath  the  Tomb  ?  " 

At  this  the  Soul  rose,  and  moved  restlessly 
to  and  fro. 

"  Tell  me,"  resumed  the  Will,  "  what  is 
Dissolution  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  returning  into  dust  of  that 
which  was  dust." 

"  And  what  is  dust  ?  " 

"  The  formless :  the  inchoate :  the  mass 
out  of  which  the  Potter  makes  new  vessels, 
or  moulds  new  shapes." 

"  But  you  do  not  go  into  dust  ?  " 

"  1  came  from  afar :  afar  I  go  again." 

"  But  we — we  shall  be  formless :  in- 
choate?" 

"  You  shall  be  upbuilded." 

"How?" 

The  Sovil  turned,  and  again  sat  by  his  com- 
rade. 

"  I  know  not,"  he  said  simply. 

"  But  if  the  Body  go  back  to  the  dust,  and 
the  life  that  is  in  him  be  blown  out  like  a 
wavering  flame;  and  if  you  who  came  from 
i6 


The  Divine  Adventure 

afar,  again  return  afar;  what,  then,  for  me, 
who  am  neither  an  immortal  spirit  nor  yet  of 
this  frail  human  clan  ?  " 

"  God  has  need  of  you." 

"  When — where?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  what  I  cannot  even  sur- 
mise? " 

"Tell  me,  tell  me  this:  if  I  am  so  wedded 
to  the  Body  that,  if  he  perish,  I  perish  also, 
what  resurrection  can  there  be  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  Is  it  a  resurrection  for  the  Body  if,  after 
weeks,  or  years,  or  scores  of  years,  his  de- 
caying dust  is  absorbed  into  the  earth,  and 
passes  in  a  chemic  change  into  the  living 
world?" 

"  No :  that  is  not  a  resurrection :  that  is  a 
transmutation." 

"  Yet  that  is  all.  There  is  nothing  else 
possible.  Dust  unto  dust.  As  with  the 
Body,  so  with  the  mind,  the  spirit  of  life, 
that  which  I  am,  the  Will.  In  the  Grave 
there  is  no  fretfulness  any  more :  neither 
any  sorrow,  or  joy,  or  any  thought,  or  dream, 
or  fear,  or  hope  whatsoever.  Hath  not  God 
Himself  said  it,  through  the  mouth  of  His 
prophet  ? " 

"I  do  not  understand/'  murmured  the 
Soul,  troubled. 

17 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  Because  the  Grave  is  not  your  portion." 

"  But  I,  too,  must  know  Death !  " 

"  Yes,  truly — a  change  what  was  it? — a 
change  from  a  dream  of  Beauty,  to  Beauty !  " 

"  God  knows  I  would  that  we  could  go  to- 
gether— you,  and  he  yonder,  and  I;  or,  if 
that  cannot  be,  he  being  wholly  mortal,  then 
at  the  least  you  and  I." 

"  But  we  cannot.  At  least,  so  it  seems  to 
us.  But  I — I  too  am  alive,  I  too  have 
dreams  and  visions,  I  too  have  joys  and 
hopes,  I  too  have  despairs.  And  for  me — 
nothing.    I  am,  at  the  end,  as  a  blown  flame." 

"  It  may  not  be  so.  Something  has  whis- 
pered to  me  at  times  that  you  and  I  are  to  be 
made  one." 

"  Tell  me :  can  the  immortal  wed  the  mor- 
tal?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  how  can  we  two  wed,  for  I  am 
mortal.  My  very  life  depends  on  the  Body. 
A  falling  branch,  a  whelming  wave,  a  sudden 
ill,  and  in  a  moment  that  which  was  is  not. 
He,  the  Body,  is  suddenly  become  inert,  mo- 
tionless, cold,  the  perquisite  of  the  Grave,  the 
sport  of  the  maggot  and  the  worm :  and  I — I 
am  a  subsided  wave,  a  vanished  spiral  of 
smoke,  a  little  fugitive  wind-eddy  abruptly 
ended." 

l8 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  You  know  not  what  is  the  end  any  more 
than  I  do.     In  a  moment  we  are  translated." 

"  Ah,  is  it  so  with  you  ?  O  Soul,  I  thought 
that  you  had  a  profound  surety !  " 

"I  know  nothing:  I  believe." 

"  Then  it  may  be  with  you  as  with  us  ?  " 

"  I  know  little :  I  believe." 

"  When  I  am  well  I  believe  in  new,  full, 
rich,  wonderful  life — in  life  in  the  spiritual 
as  well  as  the  mortal  sphere.  And  the  Body, 
when  he  is  ill,  he,  too,  thinks  of  that  which 
is  your  heritage.  But  if  you  are  not  sure — 
if  you  know  nothing — may  it  not  be  that  you, 
too,  have  fed  upon  dreams,  and  have  dallied 
with  Will-o'-the-wisp,  and  are  an  idle-blown 
flame  even  as  I  am,  and  have  only  a  vaster 
spiritual  outlook  ?  May  it  not  be  that  you,  O 
Soul,  are  but  a  spiritual  nerve  in  the  dark, 
confused,  brooding  mind  of  Humanity? 
May  it  not  be  that  you  and  I  and  the  Body 
go  down  unto  one  end?" 

"  Not  so.    There  is  the  Word  of  God." 

"  We  read  it  differently." 

"  Yet  the  Word  remains." 

"You  believe  in  the  immortal  life? — You 
believe  in  Eternity  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Then  what  is  Eternity?" 

"  Already  you  have  asked  me  that !  " 

19 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  You  believe  in  Eternity.  What  is  Eter- 
nity?" 

"  Continuity." 

"  And  what  are  the  things  of  Eternity?  " 

"  Immortal  desires." 

"  Then  what  need  for  us  who  are  mortal 
to  occupy  ourselves  with  what  must  be  for 
ever  beyond  us?  " 

Thereat,  with  a  harsh  laugh,  the  Will 
arose,  and  throwing  his  garments  from  him, 
plunged  into  the  sunlit  green  water,  with  sud- 
den cries  of  joy  calling  to  the  Body,  who  was 
still  rejoicefully  swimming  in  the  sun-dazzle 
as  he  breasted  the  tide. 

An  hour  later  we  rose,  and,  silent  again, 
once  more  resumed  our  way. 


IV 


It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
that  we  moved  inland,  because  of  a  difficult 
tract  of  cliff  and  bouldered  shore.  We  fol- 
lowed the  course  of  a  brown  torrent,  and 
were  soon  under  the  shadow  of  the  mountain. 
The  ewes  and  lambs  made  incessantly  that 
mournful  crying,  which  in  mountain  solitudes 
falls  from  ledge  to  ledge  as  though  it  were 
no  other  than  the  ancient  sorrow  of  the  hills. 
20 


The  Divine  Adventure 

Thence  we  emerged,  walking  among  boul- 
ders green  with  moss  and  grey  with  lichen, 
often  isled  among  bracken  and  shadowed  by 
the  wind-wavering  birches,  or  the  finger- 
leafed  rowans  already  heavy  with  clusters  of 
ruddy  fruit.  Sometimes  we  spoke  of  things 
which  interested  us :  of  the  play  of  light  and 
shadow  in  the  swirling  brown  torrent  along 
whose  banks  we  walked,  and  by  whose  gray- 
ling-haunted pools  we  lingered  often,  to  look 
at  the  beautiful  shadowy  unrealities  of  the 
perhaps  net  less  shadowy  reality  which  they 
mirrored;  of  the  solemn  dusk  of  the  pines; 
of  the  mauve  shadows  which  slanted  across 
the  scanty  corn  that  lay  in  green  patches  be- 
yond lonely  crofts ;  of  the  travelling  purple 
phantoms  of  phantom  clouds,  to  us  invisible, 
overagainst  the  mountain-breasts;  of  a  soli- 
tary seamew,  echoing  the  wave  in  that  in- 
land stillness. 

All  these  things  gave  us  keen  pleasure. 
The  Body  often  laughed  joyously,  and  talked 
of  chasing  the  shadow  till  it  should  turn 
and  leap  into  him,  and  he  be  a  wild  crea- 
ture of  the  woods  again,  and  be  happy, 
knowing  nothing  but  the  incalculable  hour. 
It  is  an  old  belief  of  the  Gaelic  hill- 
people. 

"  If  one  yet  older  be  true,"  said  the  Will, 

21 


The  Divine  Adventure 

speaking  to  the  Soul,  "  you  and  Shadow  are 
one  and  the  same.  Nay,  the  mystery  of  the 
Trinity  is  symboHsed  here  again — as  in  us 
three ;  for  there  is  an  ancient  forgotten  word 
of  an  ancient  forgotten  people,  which  means 
alike  the  Breath,  the  Shadow,  and  the  Soul."  ^ 

As  we  walked  onward  we  became  more 
silent.  It  was  about  the  sixth  hour  from  noon 
that  we  saw  a  little  coast-town  lying  amid 
green  pastures,  overhung,  as  it  seemed,  by 
the  tremulous  blue  band  of  the  sea-line.  The 
Body  was  glad,  for  here  were  friends,  and  he 
wearied  for  his  kind.  The  Will  and  the 
Soul,  too,  were  pleased,  for  now  they  shared 
the  common  lot  of  mortality,  and  knew 
weariness  as  well  as  hunger  and  thirst.  So 
we  moved  towards  the  blue  smoke  of  the 
homes. 

"  The  home  of  a  wild  dove,  a  branch 
swaying  in  the  wind,  is  sweet  to  it ;  and  the 
green  bracken  under  a  granite  rock  is  home 
to  a  tired  hind ;  and  so  we,  who  are  wayfarers 
idler  than  these,  which  blindly  obey  the  law, 
may  well  look  to  yonder  village  as  our  home 
for  to-night." 

So  spoke  the  Soul. 

The    Body    laughed    blithely.     "Yes,"  he 

*  ^he  Aztec  word  Ehecatl,  which  signifies  alike 
the  Wind  (or  Breath),  Shadow,  and  Soul. 
22 


The  Divine  Adventure 

added,  "  it  is  a  cheerier  home  than  the  green 
bracken.  Tell  me,  have  you  ever  heard  of 
The  Three  Companions  of  Night?" 

"The  Three  Companions  of  Night?  I 
would  take  them  to  be  Prayer,  and  Hope, 
and  Peace." 

"  So  says  the  Soul — but  what  do  you  say, 
O  Will?" 

"  I  would  take  them  to  be  Dream,  and  RcKt, 
and  Longing." 

"  We  are  ever  different,"  replied  the  Body, 
with  a  sigh,  "  for  the  Three  Companions  of 
whom  I  speak  are  Laughter,  and  Wine,  and 
Love." 

"  Perhaps  we  mean  the  same  thing,"  mut- 
tered the  Will,  with  a  smile  of  bitter  irony. 

We  thought  much  of  these  words  as  we 
passed  down  a  sandy  lane  hung  with  honey- 
suckles, which  were  full  of  little  birds  who 
made  a  sweet  chittering. 

Prayer,  and  Hope,  and  Peace ;  Dream,  and 
Rest,  and  Longing;  Laughter,  and  Wine,  and 
Love :  were  these  analogues  of  the  Heart's 
Desire? 

When  we  left  the  lane,  where  we  saw  a 
glow-worm  emitting  a  pale  fire  as  he  moved 
through  the  green  dusk  in  the  shadow  of  the 
hedge,  we  came  upon  a  white  devious  road. 
A  young  man  stood  by  a  pile  of  stones.     He 

23 


The  Divine  Adventure 

stopped  his  labour  and  looked  at  us.    One  of 
us  spoke  to  him. 

"  Why  is  it  that  a  man  like  yourself,  young 
and  strong,  should  be  doing  this  work,  which 
is  for  broken  men  ?  " 

"Why  are  you  breathing?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

"  We  breathe  to  live,"  answered  the  Body, 
smiling  blithely. 

"  Well,  I  break  stones  to  live." 

"Is  it  worth  it?" 

"  It's  better  than  death." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Body  slowly,  "  it  is  better 
than  death." 

"  Tell  me,"  asked  the  Soul,  "  why  is  it  bet- 
ter than  death?" 

"  Who  wants  not  to  want  ?  " 

"  Ah — it  is  the  need  to  want,  then,  that  is 
strongest !  " 

The  stone-breaker  looked  sullenly  at  the 
speaker. 

"  If  you're  not  anxious  to  live,"  he  said, 
"will  you  give  me  what  money  you  have?  It 
is  a  pity  good  money  should  be  wasted.  I 
know  well  where  I  would  be  spending  it  this 
night  of  the  nights,"  he  added  abruptly  in 
Gaelic. 

The  Body  looked  at  him  with  curious 
eyes. 

24 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  And  where  would  you  be  spending  it  ?  " 
he  asked,  in  the  same  language. 

"  This  is  the  night  of  the  marriage  of  John 
Macdonald,  the  rich  man  from  America,  who 
has  come  back  to  his  own  town,  and  is  giving 
a  big  night  of  it  to  all  his  friends,  and  his 
friends'  friends." 

"  Is  that  the  John  Macdonald  who  is  mar- 
rying Elsie  Cameron  ?  "  demanded  the  Body 
eagerly. 

"  Ay,  the  same ;  though  it  may  be  the  other 
daughter  of  Alastair  Rua,  the  girl  Morag." 

A  flush  rose  to  the  face  of  the  Body.  His 
eyes  sparkled. 

"  It  is  Elsie,"  he  said  to  the  man. 

"  Belike,"  the  stone-breaker  muttered  in- 
differently. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Alastair  Rua  and  his 
daughters  are  ?  " 

"  Yes,  at  Beann  Marsanta  Macdonald's  big 
house  of  the  One-Ash  Farm." 

"  Can  you  show  me  the  way  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  that  way." 

Thereat  the  Body  turned  to  his  comrades: 

"  I  love  her,"  he  said  simply;  "  I  love  Mo- 
rag Cameron." 

"  She  is  not  for  your  loving,"  answered  the 
Will  sharply;  "  for  she  has  given  troth  to  old 
Archibald   Sinclair." 

25 


The  Divine  Adventure 

The  Body  laughed. 

"  Love  is  love,"  he  said  lightly. 

"Come,"  interrupted  the  Soul  wearily; 
"  we  have  loitered  long  enough.     Let  us  go." 

We  stood  looking  at  the  stone-breaker,  who 
was  gazing  curiously  at  us.  Suddenly  he 
laughed. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh?  "  asked  the  Soul. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  for  knowing  that.  But  I'll 
tell  you  this :  if  you  two  wish  to  go  into  the 
town,  you  have  only  to  follow  this  road.  And 
if  you  want  to  come  to  One- Ash  Farm,  then 
you  must  come  this  other  way  with  me." 

"  Do  not  go,"  whispered  the  Soul. 

But  the  Body,  with  an  impatient  gesture, 
drew  aside.  "  Leave  me,"  he  added :  "  I  wish 
to  go  with  this  man.  I  will  meet  you  to- 
morrow morning  at  the  first  bridge  to  the 
westward  of  the  little  town  yonder,  just 
where  the  stream  slackens  over  the  pebbles." 

With  reluctant  eyes  the  two  companions 
saw  their  comrade  leave.  For  a  long  time  the 
Will  watched  him  with  a  bitter  smile.  Re- 
deeming love  was  in  the  longing  eyes  of  the 
Soul. 

When  the  Body  and  the  stone-breaker 
were  alone,  as  they  walked  towards  the  dis- 
tant farm-steading,  where  already  were  lights, 
and  whence  came  a  lowing  of  kye  in  the  byres, 
26 


The  Divine  Adventure 

for  it  was  the  milking  hour,  they  spoke  at 
intervals. 

"  Who  were  these  with  you  ?  "  asked  the 
man. 

"  Friends.     We  have  come  away  together." 

"What  for?" 

"  Well,  as  you  would  say,  to  see  the 
world." 

"  To  see  the  world  ?  "  The  man  laughed. 
"  To  see  the  world !     Have  you  money  ?  " 

"  Enough  for  our  needs." 

"  Then  you  will  see  nothing.  The  world 
gives  to  them  that  already  have,  an'  more 
than  have." 

"  What  do  you  hope  for  to-night?  " 

"  To  be  drunk." 

"  That  is  a  poor  thing  to  hope  for.  Better 
to  think  of  the  laugh  and  the  joke  by  the 
fireside;  and  of  food  and  drink,  too,  if  you 
will:  of  the  pipes,  and  dancing,  and  pretty 
girls." 

"  Do  as  you  like.  As  for  me,  I  hope  to  be 
drunk." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  I'll  be  another  man  then. 
I'll  have  forgotten  all  that  I  now  remember 
from  sunrise  to  sundown.  Can  you  think 
what  it  is  to  break  a  hope  in  your  heart  each 
time    you    crack    a    stone    on    the    roadside? 

27 


The  Divine  Adventure 

That's  what  I  am,  a  stone-breaker,  an'  I 
crack  stones  inside  as  well  as  outside.  It's  a 
stony  place  my  heart,  God  knows." 

"You  are  young  to  speak  like  that,  and 
you  speak  like  a  man  who  has  known  better 
days." 

"  Oh,  I'm  ancient  enough,"  said  the  man, 
with  a  short  laugh. 

"What  meaning  does  that  have?" 
"  What  meaning?    Well,  it  just  means  this, 
that   I'm   as  old   as   the   Bible.     For  there's 
mention  o'  me  there.    Only  there  I'm  herding 
swine,  an'  here  I'm  breaking  stones." 
"And  is  your  father  living?" 
"  Ay,  he  curses  me  o'  Sabbaths." 
"  Then  it's  not  the  same  as  the  old  story 
that  is  in  the  Bible  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing's  the  same  an'  everything's 
the  same — except  when  you're  drunk,  an' 
then  it's  only  the  same  turned  outside  in.  But 
see,  yonder's  the  farm.  Take  my  advice,  an' 
drink.  It's  better  than  the  fireside,  it's  better 
than  food,  it's  better  than  kisses,  ay  it's  better 
than  love,  it's  as  good  as  hate,  an'  it's  the 
only  thing  you  can  drown  in  except  despair." 
Soon  after  this  the  Body  entered  the  house 
of  the  Beann  Marsanta  Macdonald,  and  with 
laughter  and  delight  met  Morag  Cameron, 
and  others  whom  his  heart  leaped  to  see. 
28 


The  Divine  Adventure 

At  midnight,  the  Will  sat  in  a  room  in  a 
little  inn,  and  read  out  of  two  books,  now  out 
of  one,  now  out  of  the  other.  The  one  was 
the  Gaelic  Bible,  the  other  was  in  English  and 
was  called  The  One  Hope. 

He  rose,  as  the  village  clock  struck  twelve, 
and  went  to  the  window.  A  salt  breath, 
pungent  with  tide-stranded  seaweed,  reached 
him.  In  the  little  harbour,  thin  shadowy 
masts  ascended  like  smoke  and  melted.  A 
green  lantern  swung  from  one.  The  howling 
of  a  dog  rose  and  fell.  A  faint  lapping  of 
water  was  audible.  On  a  big  fishing-coble 
some  men  were  laughing  and  cursing. 

Overhead  was  an  oppressive  solemnity. 
The  myriad  stars  were  as  the  incalculable 
notes  of  a  stilled  music,  become  visible  in  si- 
lence. It  was  a  relief  to  look  into  unlighted 
deeps. 

"  These  idle  lances  of  God  pierce  the  mind, 
slay  the  spirit,"  the  Will  murmured,  staring 
with  dull  anger  at  the  white  multitude. 

"  If  the  Soul  were  here,"  he  added  bitterly, 
"  he  would  look  at  these  glittering  mockerieb 
as  though  they  were  harbingers  of  eternal 
hope.  To  me  they  are  whited  sepulchres. 
They  say  we  live,  to  those  who  die ;  they  say 
God  endures,  to  Man  that  perisheth ;  they 
whisper  the  Immortal  Hope  to  Mortality." 
29 


The  Divine  Adventure 

Turning,  he  went  back  to  where  he  had  left 
the  books.     He  hfted  one,  and  read: — 

"  Have  we  not  the  word  of  God  Himself 
tJiat  Time  and  Chance  happeneth  to  all:  that 
soon  or  late  we  shall  all  he  caught  in  a  net, 
we  whom  Chance  hath  for  his  idle  sport,  and 
upon  whom  Time  trampleth  with  impatient 
feet?  Verily,  the  rainbow  is  not  more  frail, 
more  fleeting,  than  this  drear  audacity." 

With  a  sigh  he  put  the  book  down,  and 
lifted  the  other.  Having  found  the  page  he 
sought,  he  read  slowly  aloud : — 

".  .  .  but  Time  and  Chance  happeneth  to 
them  all.  For  man  also  knozveth  not  his  time: 
as  the  fishes  that  are  taken  in  an  evil  net,  and 
as  the  birds  that  arc  caught  in  the  snare,  even 
so  are  the  sons  of  men  snared  in  an  evil 
time,  when  it  falleth  suddenly  upon  them." 

He  went  to  the  window  again,  brooding 
darkly.  A  slight  sound  caught  his  ear.  He 
saw  a  yellow  light  run  out,  leap  across  the 
pavement  and  pass  like  a  fan  of  outblown 
flame.  Then  the  door  closed,  and  we  heard 
a  step  on  the  stone  flags.  He  looked  down. 
The  Soul  was  there. 

"  Are  you  restless  ?  Can  you  not  sleep  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  No,  dear  friend.  But  my  heart  is  weary 
because  of  the  Body.    Yet  before  I  go,  let  me 

30 


The  Divine  Adventure 

bid  you  read  that  which  follows  upon  what 
you  have  just  read.  It  is  not  only  Time  and 
Chance  upon  which  to  dwell ;  but  upon  this, 
that  God  knows  that  which  He  does,  and  the 
hour  and  the  way,  and  sees  the  end  in  the  be- 
ginning." 

And  while  the  Soul  moved  softly  down  the 
little  windy  street,  the  Will  opened  the  Book 
again,  and  read  as  the  Soul  had  bidden. 

"  It  may  be  so,"  he  muttered,  "  it  may  be 
that  the  dreamer  may  yet  wake  to  behold  his 
dream — "  As  thou  knowest  not  w^hat  is  the 
way  of  the  wind,  even  so  thou  knowest  not 
the  work  of  God  Who  doeth  all?" 

With  that  he  sighed  wearily,  and  then, 
afraid  to  look  again  at  the  bitter  eloquence  of 
the  stars,  lit  a  candle  as  he  lay  down  on  his 
bed,  and  watched  the  warm  companionable 
flame  till  sleep  came  upon  him,  and  he 
dreamed  no  more  of  the  rue  and  cypress,  but 
plucked  amaranths  in  the  moonshine. 

Meanwhile  the  Soul  walked  swiftly  to  the 
outskirts  of  the  little  town,  and  out  by  the 
grassy  links  where  clusters  of  white  geese 
huddled  in  sleep,  and  across  the  windy  com- 
mon where  a  tethered  ass  stood,  with  droop- 
ing head,  his  long,  twitching  ears  now  mo- 
tionless. In  the  moonlight,  the  shadow  of 
the     weary    animal     stretched     to     fantastic 

31 


The  Divine  Adventure 

lengths,  and  at  one  point,  when  the  startled 
Soul  looked  at  it,  he  beheld  the  shadow  of 
the  Cross, 

When  he  neared  One-Ash  Farm  he  heard 
a  loud  uproar  from  within.  Many  couples 
were  still  dancing,  and  the  pipes  and  a  shrill 
flute  added  to  the  tumult.  Others  sang  and 
laughed,  or  laughed  and  shouted,  or  cursed 
hoarsely.  Through  the  fumes  of  smoke  and 
drink  rippled  women's  laughter. 

He  looked  in  at  a  window,  with  sad  eyes. 
The  first  glance  revealed  to  him  the  Body,  his 
blue  eyes  aflame,  his  face  flushed  with  wine, 
his  left  arm  holding  close  to  his  heart  a  bright 
winsome  lass,  with  hair  dishevelled,  and  wild 
eyes,  but  with  a  wonderful  laughing  eagerness 
of  joy. 

In  vain  he  called.  His  voice  was  suddenly 
grown  faint.  But  what  the  ear  could  not 
hear,  the  heart  heard.  The  Body  rose 
abruptly. 

"  I  will  drink  no  more,"  he  said. 

A  loud  insensate  laugh  resounded  near 
him.  The  stone-breaker  lounged  heavily 
from  a  bench,  upon  the  servant's  table. 

"  I  am  drunk  now,  my  friend,"  the  man 
cried  with  flaming  eyes.  "  I  am  drunk,  an' 
now  I  am  as  reckless  as  a  king,  an'  as  serene 
as  the  Pope,  an'  as  heedless  as  God." 

32 


The  Divine  Adventure 

The  Soul  turned  his  gaze  and  looked  at 
him.  He  saw  a  red  flame  rising  from  grey 
ashes.  The  ashes  were  his  heart.  The  flame 
was  his  impotent,  perishing  life. 

Stricken  with  sorrow,  the  Soul  went  to  the 
door,  and  entered.  He  went  straight  to  the 
stone-breaker,  who  was  now  lying  with  head 
and  arms  prone  on  the  deal  table. 

He  whispered  in  the  drunkard's  ear.  The 
man  lifted  his  head,  and  stared  with  red, 
brutish  eyes. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Your  mother  was  pure  and  holy.  She 
died  to  give  you  her  life.  What  will  it  be 
like  on  the  day  she  asks  for  it  again  ?  " 

The  man  raised  an  averting  arm.  There 
was  a  stare  of  horror  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  know  you,  you  devil.  Your  name  is 
Conscience." 

The  Soul  looked  at  the  speaker.  "  I  do  not 
know,"  he  answered  simply ;  "  but  I  believe  in 
God." 

"In  the  love  of  God?" 

"  In  the  love  of  God." 

"  He  dwells  everywhere  ?  " 

"  Everywhere." 

"  Then  I  will  find  Him,  I  will  find  His  love, 
here " — and  with  that  the  man  raised  the 
deathly    spirit   to   his    lips    again,    and   again 

33 


The  Divine  Adventure 

drank.  Then,  laughing  and  cursing,  he  threw 
the  remainder  at  the  feet  of  his  unknown 
friend. 

"  Farewell !  "  he  shouted  hoarsely,  so  that 
those  about  him  stared  at  him  and  at  the 
new-comer. 

The  Soul  turned  sadly,  and  looked  for  his 
strayed  comrade,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  In  a  room  upstairs  that  friend  whom 
he  loved  was  whispering  eager  vows  of  sand 
and  wind;  and  the  girl  Morag,  clinging  close 
to  him,  tempted  him  as  she  herself  was 
tempted,  so  that  both  stood  in  that  sand,  and 
in  the  intertangled  hair  of  each  that  wind 
blew. 

The  Soul  saw,  and  understood.  None 
spoke  to  him,  a  stranger,  as  he  went  slowly 
from  the  house,  though  all  were  relieved  when 
that  silent,  sad-eyed  foreigner  withdrew. 

Outside,  the  cool  sea-wind  fell  freshly  upon 
him.  He  heard  a  corncrake  calling  harshly 
to  his  mate,  where  the  corn  was  yellowing  in 
a  little  stone-dyked  field;  and  a  night-jar 
creening  forward  on  a  juniper,  uttering  his 
whirring  love-note;  and  he  blessed  their 
sweet,  innocent  lust.  Then,  looking  upward, 
he  watched  for  a  while  the  white  procession 
of  the  stars.  They  were  to  him  the  symbolic 
signs  of  the  mystery  of  God.     He  bowed  his 

34 


The  Divine  Adventure 

head.  "  Dust  of  the  world,"  he  muttered 
humbly,  "  dust  of  the  world." 

Moving  slowly  by  the  house — so  doubly 
noisy,  so  harshly  discordant,  against  the 
large,  serene,  nocturnal  life — he  came  against 
the  gable  of  an  open  window.  On  the  ledge 
lay  a  violin,  doubtless  discarded  by  some 
reveller.  The  Soul  lifted  it,  and  held  it  up 
to  the  night-wind.  When  it  was  purified,  and 
the  vibrant  wood  was  as  a  nerve  in  that  fra- 
grant darkness,  he  laid  it  on  his  shoulder  and 
played  softly. 

What  was  it  that  he  played?  Many  heard 
it,  but  none  knew  what  the  strain  was,  or 
whence  it  came.  The  Soul  remembered,  and 
played.     It  is  enough. 

That  soft  playing  stole  into  the  house  as 
though  it  were  the  cool  sea-wind,  as  though 
it  were  the  flowing  dusk.  Beautiful,  un- 
familiar sounds,  and  sudden  silences  passing 
sweet,  filled  the  rooms.  The  last  guests  left 
hurriedly,  hushed,  strangely  disquieted.  The 
dwellers  in  the  farmstead  furtively  bade 
good-night,  and  slipt  away. 

For  an  hour,  till  the  sinking  of  the  moon, 
the  Soul  played.  He  played  the  Song  of 
Dreams,  the  Song  of  Peace,  the  three  Songs 
of  Mystery.  The  evil  that  was  in  the  house 
ebbed.     Everywhere,  at  his  playing,  the  se- 

35 


The  Divine  Adventure 

cret  obscure  life  awoke.  Nimble  aerial 
creatures  swung,  invisibly  passive,  in  the 
quiet  dark.  From  the  brown  earth,  from  hid- 
den sanctuaries  in  rocks  and  trees,  green  and 
grey  lives  slid,  and  stood  intent.  Out  of  the 
hillside  came  those  of  old.  There  were 
many  eager  voices,  like  leaves  lapping  in  a 
wind.  The  wild-fox  lay  down,  with  red 
tongue  lolling  idly;  the  stag  rose  from  the 
fern,  with  dilated  nostrils;  the  night-jar 
ceased,  the  corncrake  ceased,  the  moon- 
wakeful  thrushes  made  no  single  thrilling 
note.  The  silence  deepened.  Sleep  came 
stealing  softly  out  of  the  obscure,  swimming 
dusk.  There  was  not  a  swaying  reed,  a  mov- 
ing leaf.  The  strange  company  of  shadows 
stood  breathless.  Among  the  tree-tops  the 
loosened  stars  shone  terribly — lonely  fires  of 
silence. 

The  Soul  played.  Once  he  thought  of  the 
stone-breaker.  He  played  into  his  heart. 
The  man  stirred,  and  tears  oozed  between  his 
heavy  lids.  It  was  his  mother's  voice  that  he 
heard,  singing  low  a  cradle-sweet  song,  and 
putting  back  her  white  hair  that  she  might 
look  earthward  to  her  love.  "  Grey  sweet- 
heart, grey  sweetheart,"  he  moaned.  Then  his 
heart  lightened,  and  a  moonlight  of  peace  hal- 
lowed that  solitary  waste  place. 


The  Divine  Adventure 

Again,  at  the  last,  the  Soul  thought  of  his 
comrade,  heavy  with  wine  in  the  room  over- 
head, drunken  with  desire.  And  to  him  he 
played  the  imperishable  beauty  of  Beauty,  the 
Immortal  Love,  so  that,  afterwards,  he  should 
remember  the  glory  rather  than  the  shame  of 
his  poor  frailty.  What  he  played  to  the  girl's 
heart  only  those  women  know  who  hear  the 
whispering  words  of  Mary  the  Mother  in 
sleep,  when  a  second  life  breathes  beneath 
each  breath. 

When  he  ceased,  deep  slumber  was  a  balm 
upon  all.    He  fell  upon  his  knees  and  prayed. 

"  Beauty  of  all  Beauty,"  he  prayed,  "  let 
none  perish  without  thee." 

It  was  thus  that  we  three,  who  were  one, 
realised  how  Prayer  and  Hope  and  Peace, 
how  Dream  and  Rest  and  Longing,  how 
Laughter  and  Wine  and  Love,  are  in  truth 
but  shadowy  analogues  of  the  Heart's  Desire. 

V 

At  dawn  we  woke.  A  movement  of  glad- 
ness was  in  the  lovely  tides  of  morning — 
delicate  green,  and  blue,  and  gold.  The  spires 
of  the  grasses  were  washed  in  dew ;  the  in- 
numerous  was  as  one  green  flower  that  had 
lain  all  night  in  the  moonshine. 

37 


The  Divine  Adventure 

We  had  agreed  to  meet  at  the  bridge  over 
the  stream  where  it  lapsed  through  gravelly 
beaches  just  beyond  the  little  town. 

There  the  Soul  and  the  Will  long  awaited 
the  Body.  The  sun  was  an  hour  risen,  and 
had  guided  a  moving  multitude  of  gold  and 
azure  waters  against  the  long  reaches  of  yel- 
low-poppied sand,  and  to  the  bases  of  the 
great  cliffs,  whose  schist  shone  like  chrysolite, 
and  whose  dreadful  bastions  of  black  basalt 
loomed  in  purple  shadow,  like  suspended 
thunder-clouds  on  a  windless  afternoon. 

The  air  was  filled  with  the  poignant  sweet- 
ness of  the  loneroid  or  bog-myrtle,  meadow- 
sweet, and  white  wild  roses.  The  green  smell 
of  the  bracken,  the  delicate  woodland  odour 
of  the  mountain-ash,  floated  hitherward  and 
thitherward  on  the  idle  breath  of  the  wind, 
sunwarm  when  it  came  across  the  sea-pinks 
and  thyme-set  grass,  cool  and  fresh  when  it 
eddied  from  the  fern-coverts,  or  from  the 
heather  above  the  hillside-boulders  where  the 
sheep  lay,  or  from  under  the  pines  at  the  bend 
of  the  sea-road  where  already  the  cooing  of 
grey  doves  made  an  indolent  sweetness. 

The  Soul  was  silent.  He  had  not  slept, 
but,  after  his  playing  in  the  dark,  peace  had 
come  to  him. 

Before  dawn  he  had  gone  into  the  room 

38 


The  Divine  Adventure 

where  the  Will  lay,  and  had  looked  long  at 
his  comrade.  In  sleep  the  Will  more  resem- 
bled him,  as  when  awake  he  the  more  resem- 
bled the  Body.  A  deep  pity  had  come  upon 
the  Soul  for  him  whom  he  loved  so  well,  but 
knew  so  little. 

Why  was  it,  he  wondered,  that  he  felt  less 
alien  from  the  Body?  Why  was  it  that  this 
strange,  potent,  inscrutable  being,  whom  both 
loved,  should  be  so  foreign  to  each?  The 
Body  feared  him.  As  for  himself,  he,  too, 
feared  him  at  times.  There  were  moments 
when  all  his  marvellous  background  of  the 
immortal  life  shrank  before  the  keen  gaze  of 
his  friend.  Was  it  possible  that  Mind  could 
have  a  life  apart  from  mortal  substances? 
Was  it  possible?    If  so 

It  was  here  that  the  Will  awoke,  and 
smiled  at  his  friend. 

He  gave  no  greeting,  but  answered  his 
thought. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  gravely,  and  as  though  con- 
tinuing an  argument,  "  it  is  impossible,  if  you 
mean  the  mortal  substance  of  our  brother,  the 
Body.  But  yet  not  without  material  sub- 
stance. May  it  not  be  that  the  Mind  may 
have  an  undreamed-of  shaping  power,  where- 
by it  can  instantly  create  ?  " 

"  Create  what?  " 

39 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  A  new  environment  for  its  need  ?  Drown 
it  in  the  deepest  gulfs  of  the  sea,  and  it  will, 
at  the  moment  it  is  freed  from  the  body, 
sheathe  itself  in  a  like  shape,  and  habit  itself 
with  free  spaces  of  air,  so  that  it  may  breathe, 
and  live,  and  emerge  into  the  atmosphere, 
there  to  take  on  a  new  shape,  to  involve  itself 
in  new  circumstances,  to  live  anew  ?  " 

"  It  is  possible.  But  would  that  sea-change 
leave  the  Mind  the  same  or  another?" 

"  The  Mind  would  come  forth  one  and  in- 
corruptible." 

"  If,  in  truth,  the  Mind  be  an  indivisible 
essence  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  the  Mind  be  one  and  indivisible." 

"You  believe  it  so?" 

"Tell  me,  are  you  insubstantial?  You, 
yourself,  below  this  accident  of  mortality?" 

"  I  know  not  what  you  mean." 

"  You  were  wondering  if,  after  all,  it  were 
possible  for  me  to  have  a  life,  a  conscious,  in- 
dividual continuity,  apart  from  this  mortal 
substance  in  which  you  and  I  now  share — 
counterparts  of  that  human  home  we  both 
love  and  hate,  that  moving  tent  of  the  Illimi- 
table, which  at  birth  appears  a  speck  on 
sands  of  the  Illimitable,  and  at  death  again 
abruptly  disappears.  You  were  wondering 
this.  But,  tell  me:  have  you  yourself  never 
40 


The  Divine  Adventure 

wondered  how  you  can  exist,  as  yourself, 
apart  from  something  of  this  very  actuality, 
this  form,  this  materialism  to  which  you  find 
yourself  so  alien  in  the  Body?" 

"  I  am  spirit.     I  am  a  breath." 

"  But  you  are  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  I." 

The  surpassing  egotism  is  the  same,  whether 
in  you,  the  Soul,  who  are  but  a  breath ;  or  in 
me,  the  Will,  who  am  but  a  condition ;  or  in 
our  brother,  the  Body,  a  claimant  to  Eternal 
Life  while  perishing  in  his  mortality !  " 

"  I  live  in  God.  Whence  I  came,  thither 
shall  I  return." 

"  A  breath  ?  " 

"  It  may  be." 

"  Yet  you  shall  be  you  ?  " 

"Yes;  I." 

"  Then  that  breath  which  will  be  you  must 
have  form,  even  as  the  Body  must  have 
form." 

"  Form  is  but  the  human  formula  for  the 
in  formulate." 

"  Nay,  Form  is  life." 

"  You  have  ever  one  wish,  it  seems  to  me, 
O  Will:  to  put  upon  me  the  heavy  yoke  of 
mortality." 

"  Not  so:  but  to  lift  it  from  myself." 

"  And  the  Body  ?  " 

41 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  Where  did  you  leave  him  last  night?  " 

"  You  remember  what  he  said  about  the 
Three  Companions  of  Night:  Laughter,  and 
Wine,  and  Love?    I  left  him  with  these." 

"  They  are  also  called  Tears,  and  Weari- 
ness, and  the  Grave.  He  has  his  portion. 
Perhaps  he  does  well.  Death  intercepts  many 
retributions." 

"  He,  too,  has  his  dream  within  a  dream." 

"  Yes,  you  played  to  it,  in  the  silence  and 
the  darkness." 

"  You  heard  my  playing — you  here,  I 
there  ?  " 

"  I  heard." 

"  And  did  you  sleep  or  wake,  comforted?  " 

"  I  heard  a  Wind.  I  have  heard  it  often. 
I  heard,  too,  my  own  voice  singing  in  the 
dark." 

"What  was  the  song?" 

"  This :— 

In  the  silences  of  the  woods 
I  have  heard  all  day  and  all  night 
The  moving  multitudes 
Of  the  Wind  in  flight. 
He  is  named  Myriad: 
And  I  am  sad 

Often,  and  often  I  am  glad; 
But  oftener  I  am  white 
With  fear  of  the  dim  broods 
That  are  his  multitudes." 
42 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  And  then,  when  you  had  heard  that 
song?  " 

"  There  was  a  rush  of  wings.  My  hair 
streamed  behind  me.  Then  a  sudden  still- 
ness, out  of  which  came  moonlight;  and  a 
star  fell  slowly  through  the  dark,  and  as  it 
passed  my  face  I  felt  lips  pressed  against 
mine,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  you  kissed 
me." 

"  And  when  I  kissed  you,  did  I  whisper  any 
word  ?  " 

"You  whispered:  '/  a}n  the  Following 
Love.' " 

"  And  you  knew  then  that  it  was  the 
Breath  of  God,  and  you  had  deep  peace,  and 
slept  ?  " 

"  I  knew  that  it  was  the  Following  Love, — 
that  is  the  Breath  of  God,  and  I  had  deep 
peace,  and  I  slept." 

The  Soul  crossed  from  the  window  to  the 
bed,  and  stooped,  and  kissed  the  Will. 

"  Beloved,"  he  whispered,  "  the  star  was 
but  a  dewdrop  of  the  Peace  that  passeth 
understanding.  And  can  it  be  that  to  you,  to 
whom  the  healing  dew  was  vouchsafed,  shall 
be  denied  the  water-springs  ?  " 

"  Ah,  beautiful  dreamer  of  dreams,  bewil- 
der me  no  more  with  your  lovely  sophistries. 
See,  it  is  already  late,  and  we  have  to  meet 

43 


The  Divine  Adventure 

the  Body  at  the  shore-bridge  over  the  Httle 
stream !  " 

It  was  then  that  the  two,  having  had  a 
spare  meal  of  milk  and  new  bread,  left  the 
inn,  and  went,  each  communing  with  his  own 
thoughts,  to  the  appointed  place. 

They  heard  the  Body  before  they  saw  him, 
for  he  was  singing  as  he  came.  It  was  a 
strange,  idle  fragment  of  a  song — "  The  Lit- 
tle Children  of  the  Wind " — a  song  that 
some  one  had  made,  complete  in  its  incom- 
pleteness, as  a  wind-blown  blossom,  and,  as  a 
blossom  discarded  by  a  flying  bird,  thrown 
heedlessly  on  the  wayside  by  its  unknown 
wandering  singer : — 

I  hear  the  little  children  of  the  wind 

Crying  solitary  in  lonely  places: 

I  have  not  seen  their  faces, 

But  I  have  seen  the  leaves  eddying  behind, 

The  little  tremulous  leaves  of  the  wind. 

The  Soul  looked  at  the  Will. 
"  So  he,  too,  has  heard  the  Wind,"  he  said 
softly. 

VI 

All  that  day  we  journeyed  westward. 
Sometimes    we    saw,    far    ofl",   the   pale   blue 

44 


The  Divine  Adventure 

films  of  the  Hills  of  Dream,  those  elusive 
mountains  towards  which  our  way  was  set. 
Sometimes  they  were  so  startlingly  near  that, 
from  gorse  upland  or  inland  valley,  we 
thought  we  saw  the  shadow-grass  shake  in 
the  wind's  passage,  or  smelled  the  thyme  still 
wet  with  dew  where  it  lay  under  the  walls  of 
mountain-boulders.  But  at  noon  we  were  no 
nearer  than  when,  at  sunrise,  we  had  left  the 
little  sea-town  behind  us :  and  when  the 
throng  of  bracken-shadows  filled  the  green 
levels  between  the  fern  and  the  pines — like 
flocks  of  sheep  following  fantastic  herdsmen 
— the  Hills  of  the  West  were  still  as  near,  and 
as  far,  as  the  bright  raiment  of  the  rainbow 
which  the  shepherd  sees  lying  upon  his  lonely 
pastures. 

But  long  before  noon  we  were  glad  because 
of  what  happened  to  one  of  us. 

The  dawn  had  flushed  into  a  wilderness  of 
rose  as  we  left  the  bridge  by  the  stream. 
Long  shafts  of  light,  plumed  with  pale  gold, 
were  flung  up  out  of  the  east :  everywhere 
was  the  tremulous  awakening  of  the  new  day. 
A  score  of  yards  from  the  highway  a  cot- 
tage stood,  sparrows  stirring  in  the  thatch, 
swift  fairy-spiders  running  across  the  rude 
white-washed  walls,  a  redbreast  singing  in 
the    dew-drenched    fuchsia-bush.      The    blue 

45 


The  Divine  Adventure 

peat-smoke  which  rose  above  it  was  so  faint 
as  to  be  invisible  beyond  the  rowan  which 
stood  sunways.  The  westward  part  of  the 
cottage  was  a  byre :  we  could  hear  the  lowing 
of  a  cow,  the  clucking  of  fowls. 

In  every  glen,  on  each  hillside,  are  crofts 
such  as  this.  There  was  nothing  unusual  in 
what  we  saw,  save  that  a  collie  crouched 
whimpering  beyond  a  dyke  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  rowan. 

"  All  is  not  well  here,"  said  the  Will. 

"  No,"  murmured  the  Soul,  "  I  see  the 
shadowy  footsteps  of  those  who  serve  the 
Evil  One.      Await  me  here." 

With  that  the  Soul  walked  swiftly  towards 
the  cottage,  and  looked  in  at  the  little  window. 
His  thought  was  straightway  ours,  and  we 
knew  that  a  woman  lay  within  and  was  about 
to  give  birth  to  a  child.  We  knew,  also,  that 
those  who  had  dark,  cruel  eyes,  and  wore 
each  the  feather  of  a  hawk,  had  no  power 
within,  but  were  baffled,  and  roamed  restlessly 
outside  the  cottage  on  the  side  of  shadow. 
The  Fuath  himself  was  not  there,  but  when 
his  call  came  the  evil  spirits  rose  like  a  flock 
of  crows  and  passed  away.  Then  we  saw  our 
comrade  stand  back,  and  bow  down,  and  fall 
upon  his  knees. 

When  he  rejoined  us  we  were  for  a  moment 
46 


The  Divine  Adventure 

as  one,  and  saw  seven  tall  and  beautiful  spir- 
its, starred  and  flame-crested,  hand-clasped 
and  standing  circlewise  round  the  cottage. 
They  were  Sons  of  Joy,  who  sang  because  in 
that  mortal  hour  was  born  an  immortal  soul 
who  in  the  white  flame  and  the  red  of  mortal 
life  was  to  be  a  spirit  of  gladness  and  beauty. 
For  there  is  no  joy  in  the  domain  of  the 
Spirit  like  that  of  the  birth  of  a  new  joy. 

A  long  while  we  walked  in  silence.  In  the 
eyes  of  the  Soul  we  saw  a  divine  and  beauti- 
ful light :  in  the  eyes  of  the  Will  we  saw  rain- 
bow-spanned depths:  in  the  eyes  of  the  Body 
we  saw  gladness. 

"  We  are  one !  " 

None  knew  who  spoke.  For  a  moment  I 
heard  my  own  voice,  saw  my  own  shadow  in 
the  grass ;  then,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
three  stood,  looking  at  each  other  with 
startled  gaze. 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  the  Soul ;  "  we  have  a 
long  way  yet  to  travel." 

Each  dreaming  his  own  dream,  we  walked 
onward.  Suddenly  the  Soul  turned  and 
looked  in  the  eyes  of  the  Body. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  your  loneliness,"  he 
said  gravely. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Body. 

"  And  I  too,"  .said  the  Will. 

47 


The  Divine  Adventure 

For  a  time  no  word  more  was  said. 

"  I  am  indeed  alone."  This  I  murmured 
to  myself  after  a  long  while,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  old  supreme  wisdom  sank,  and  we 
were  not  one  but  three. 

"  But  you,  O  Soul,"  said  the  Will,  "  how 
can  you  be  alone  when  in  every  hour  you  have 
the  company  of  the  invisible,  and  see  the  pas- 
sage of  powers  and  influences,  of  demons  and 
angels,  creatures  of  the  triple  universe,  souls, 
and  the  pale  flight  of  the  unembodied?" 

"  I  do  not  know  loneliness  because  of  what 
I  see  or  do  not  see,  but  because  of  what  I 
feel.  When  I  walk  here  with  you  side  by 
side  it  is  as  though  I  walked  along  a  narrow 
shore  between  a  fathomless  sea  and  fathom- 
less night." 

The  thought  of  one  was  the  thought  of 
three.  I  shivered  with  that  great  loneliness. 
The  Body  glanced  sidelong  at  the  Will,  the 
Will  at  the  Soul. 

"  It  is  not  good  to  dwell  upon  that  loneli- 
ness," said  the  last. 

"  To  you,  O  Body,  and  to  you,  O  Will,  as 
to  me,  it  is  the  signal  of  Him  whom  we  have 
lost.  Listen,  and  in  the  deepest  hollow  of 
loneliness  we  can  hear  the  voice  of  the  Shep- 
herd." 

"  I  hear  nothing,"  said  the  Body. 
48 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  I  hear  an  echo,"  said  the  Will :  "  I  hear 
an  echo;  but  so,  too,  I  can  hear  the  authentic 
voice  of  the  sea  in  a  hollow  shell.  Authentic ! 
.  .  .  when  I  know  well  that  the  murmur  is 
no  eternal  voice,  no  whisper  of  the  wave 
made  one  with  pearly  silence,  but  only  the 
sound  of  my  flowing  blood  heard  idly  in  the 
curves  of  ear  and  shell!" 

"  Ah !  "  .  .  .  cried  the  Body,  "  it  is  a  lie, 
that  cruel  word  of  science.  The  shell  must 
ever  murmur  of  the  sea ;  if  not,  at  least  let  us 
dream  that  it  does.  Soon,  soon  we  shall  have 
no  dream  left.  How  am  I  to  know  that  all, 
that  everything,  is  not  but  an  idle  noise 
in  my  ears?  How  am  I  to  know  that  the 
Hope  of  the  Will,  and  the  Voice  of  the  Soul, 
and  the  message  of  the  Word,  and  the  Whis- 
per of  the  Eternal  Spirit,  are  not  one  and  all 
but  a  mocking  echo  in  that  shell  which  for  me 
is  the  Shell  of  Life,  but  may  be  only  the  cold 
inhabitation  of  my  dreams?" 

"  Yet  were  it  not  for  these  echoes,"  the 
Soul  answered,  "  life  would  be  intolerable  for 
you,  as  for  you  too,  my  friend." 

The  Will  smiled  scornfully. 

"  Dreams  are  no  comfort,  no  solace,  no  re- 
lief from  weariness  even,  if  one  knows  them 
to  be  no  more  than  the  spray  above  the  froth 
of  a  distempered  mind." 

49 


The  Divine  Adventure 

Suddenly  one  of  us  began  in  a  low  voice  a 
melancholy  little  song: — 

I  hear  the  sea-song  of  the  blood  in  my  heart, 
I  hear  the  sea-song  of  the  blood  in  my  ears; 
And  I  am  far  apart, 
And  lost  in  the  years. 

But  when  I  lie  and  dream  of  that  which  was 
Before  the  first  man's  shadow  flitted  on  the  grass — 
I  am  stricken  dumb 
With  sense  of  that  to  come. 

Is  then  this  wildering  sea-song  but  a  part 
Of  the  old  song  of  the  mystery  of  the  years — 
Or  only  the  echo  of  the  tired  Heart 
And  of  Tears  ? 

But  none  answered,  and  so  again  we  walked 
onward,  silent.  The  wind  had  fallen,  and  in 
the  noon-heat  we  began  to  grow  weary.  It 
was  with  relief  that  we  saw  the  gleam  of 
water  between  the  branches  of  a  little  wood 
of  birches,  which  waded  towards  it  through  a 
tide  of  bracken.  Beyond  the  birks  shimmered 
a  rainbow;  a  stray  cloud  had  trailed  from 
glen  to  glen,  and  suddenly  broken  among  the 
tree-tops. 

"  There  goes  Yesterday !  "  cried  the  Body 
laughingly — alluding  to  the  saying  that  the 
morning  rainbow  is  the  ghost  of  the  day  that 

50 


The  Divine  Adventure 

passed  at  dawn.    The  next  moment  he  broke 
into  a  fragment  of  song: — 

Brother  and  Sister,  wanderers  they 

Out  of  the  Golden  Yesterday — 

Thro'  the  dusty  Now  and  the  dim  To-morrow 

Hand-in-hand  go  Joy  and  Sorrow. 

"  Yes,  joy  and  sorrow,  O  glad  Body,"  ex- 
claimed the  Will — "  but  it  is  the  joy  only  that 
is  vain  as  the  rainbow,  which  has  no  other 
message.  It  should  be  called  the  Bow  of 
Sorrow." 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  Soul  gently,  "  or,  if  so, 
not  as  you  mean,  dear  friend : — 

It  is  not  Love  that  gives  the  clearest  sight: 
For  out  of  bitter  tears,  and  tears  unshed, 
Riseth  the  Rainbow  of  Sorrow  overhead, 
And  'neath  the  Rainbow  is  the  clearest  light." 

The  Will  smiled: — 

"  I  too  must  have  my  say,  dear  poets : — 

Where  rainbows  rise  through  sunset  rains 
By  shores  forlorn  of  isles  forgot, 

A  solitary  Voice  complains 

'The  World  is  here,  the  World  is  not.' 

The  Voice  may  be  the  wind,  or  sea. 

Or  spirit  of  the  sundown  West: 
Or,  mayhap,  some  sweet  air  set  free 

From  off  the  Islands  of  the  Blest: 

51 


The  Divine  Adventure 

It  may  be ;  but  I  turn  my  face 
To  that  which  still  I  hold  so  dear; 

And  lo,  the  voices  of  the  days — 

'The  World  is  not,  the  World  is  here. 

'Tis  the  same  end  whichever  way 
And  either  way  is  soon  forgot: 

•The  World  is  all  in  all,  To-day: 
To-morrow  all  the  World  is  not.' " 


VII 

In  the  noon-heat  we  lay,  for  rest  and 
coolness,  by  the  pool,  and  on  the  shadow- 
side  of  a  hazel.  The  water  was  of  so  dark 
a  brown  that  we  knew  it  was  of  a  great 
depth,  and,  indeed,  even  at  the  far  verge, 
a  heron,  standing  motionless,  wetted  her 
breast-feathers. 

In  the  mid-pool,  where  the  brown  lawns 
sloped  into  depths  of  purple-blue,  we  could 
see  a  single  cloud,  invisible  otherwise  where 
we  lay.  Nearer  us,  the  water  mirrored  a 
mountain-ash  heavy  with  ruddy  clusters. 
That  long,  feathery  foliage,  that  reddening 
fruit,  hung  in  a  strange,  unfamiliar  air;  the 
stranger,  that  amid  the  silence  of  those  phan- 
tom branches  ever  and  again  flitted  furtive 
shadow-birds. 

We  had  walked  for  hours,  and  were  now 

52 


The  Divine  Adventure 

glad  to  rest.  With  us  we  had  brought  oaten 
bread  and  milk,  and  were  well  content. 

"  It  was  by  a  pool  such  as  this,"  said  one 
of  us,  after  a  long  interval,  "  that  dreamers 
of  old  called  to  Connla,  and  Connla  heard. 
That  was  the  mortal  name  of  one  whose  name 
we  know  not." 

"  Call  him  now,"  whispered  the  Body 
eagerly. 

The  Soul  leaned  forward,  and  stared  into 
the  fathomless  brown  dusk. 

"  Speak,  Connla !     Who  art  thou  ?  " 

Clear  as  a  Sabbath-bell  across  windless 
pastures  we  heard  a  voice: 

"  I  am  of  those  who  wait  yet  a  while.  I  am 
older  than  all  age,  for  my  youth  is  Wisdom ; 
and  I  am  younger  than  all  youth,  for  I  am 
named  To-morrow." 

We  heard  no  more.  In  vain,  together, 
separately,  we  sought  to  break  that  silence 
which  divides  the  mortal  moment  from  hour- 
less  time.  The  Soul  himself  could  not  hear, 
or  see,  or  even  remember,  because  of  that 
mortal  raiment  of  the  flesh  which  for  a 
time  he  had  voluntarily  taken  upon  him- 
self. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  dream  that  is  not  all  a 
dream,"  he  said  at  last,  after  we  had  lain  a 
long  while  pondering  what  that  voice  had  ut- 

sz 


The  Divine  Adventure 

tered,  that  voice  which  showed  that  the  grave 
held  a  deeper  mystery  than  silence. 

The  Will  looked  curiously  at  him. 

"  Is  it  a  dream  wherein  we  have  shared  ?  " 
he  asked  slowly. 

"  That  I  know  not :  yet  it  may  well  be  so. 
I  call  my  dream  '  The  Sons  of  Joy.'  If  you 
or  the  Body  have  also  dreamed,  let  each  re- 
late the  dream." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Body,  "  I  have  dreamed  it. 
But  I  would  call  it  rather  '  The  Sons  of  De- 
light.'  " 

"And  I,"  said  the  Will,  '"The  Sons  of 
Silence.'  " 

"  Tell  it,"  said  the  Soul,  looking  towards 
the  Body. 

"  It  was  night,"  answered  the  Body  at 
once :  "  and  I  was  alone  in  a  waste  place. 
My  feet  were  entangled  among  briars  and 
thorns,  and  beside  me  was  a  quagmire.  On 
the  briar  grew  a  great  staff,  and  beside  it  a 
circlet  of  woven  thorn.  I  could  see  them,  in 
a  soft,  white  light.  It  must  have  been  moon- 
light, for  on  the  other  side  of  the  briar  I  saw, 
in  the  moonshine,  a  maze  of  wild  roses.  They 
were  lovely  and  fragrant.  I  would  have  liked 
to  take  the  staff,  but  it  was  circled  with  the 
thorn-wreath ;  so  I  turned  to  the  moonshine 
and  the  wild  roses.    It  was  then  that  I  saw  a 

54 


The  Divine  Adventure 

multitude  of  tall  and  lovely  figures,  men  and 
women,  all  rose-crowned,  and  the  pale,  beau- 
tiful faces  of  the  women  with  lips  like  rose- 
leaves.  They  were  singing.  It  was  the  Song 
of  Delight.  I,  too,  sang.  And  as  I  sang,  I 
wondered,  for  I  thought  that  the  eyes  of  those 
about  me  were  heavy  with  love  and  dreams, 
as  though  each  had  been  pierced  with  a 
shadowy  thorn.  But  still  the  song  rose,  and 
I  knew  that  the  flowers  in  the  grass  breathed 
to  it,  and  that  the  vast  slow  cadence  of  the 
stars  was  its  majestic  measure.  Then  the 
dawn  broke,  and  I  saw  all  the  company, 
winged  and  crested  with  the  seven  colours, 
press  together,  so  that  a  rainbow  was  up- 
builded.  In  the  middle  space  below  the  rain- 
bow, a  bird  sang.  Then  I  knew  I  was  that 
bird ;  and  as  the  rainbow  vanished,  and  the 
dawn  grew  grey  and  chill,  I  sank  to  the 
ground.  But  it  was  all  bog  and  swamp.  I 
knew  I  should  sing  no  more.  But  I  heard 
voices  saying:  "O  happy,  wonderful  bird, 
who  has  seen  all  delight,  whose  song  was  so 
rapt,  sing,  sing,  sing!  "  But  when  I  could 
sing  no  more  I  was  stoned,  and  lay  dead. 

"  That  was  my  dream." 

The  Soul  sighed. 

"  It  was  not  thus  I  dreamed,"  he  mur- 
mured ;  **  but  thus : — 

55 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  I  stood,  at  night,  on  the  verge  of  the  sea, 
and  looked  at  the  maze  of  stars.  And  while 
looking  and  dreaming,  I  heard  voices,  and, 
turning,  beheld  a  multitude  of  human  beings. 
All  were  sorrowful ;  many  were  heavy  with 
weariness  and  despair ;  all  suffered  from  some 
grievous  ill.  Among  them  were  many  who 
cried  continually  that  they  had  no  thought,  or 
dream,  no  wish,  but  to  forget  all,  and  be  at 
rest: 

"  I  called  to  them,  asking  whither  they  were 
bound  ? 

"  '  We  are  journeying  to  the  Grave/  came 
the  sighing  answer. 

"  Then  suddenly  I  saw  the  Grave.  An 
angel  stood  at  the  portals.  He  was  so  beau- 
tiful that  the  radiance  of  the  light  upon  his 
brow  lit  that  shoreless  multitude ;  in  every 
heart  a  little  flame  arose.  The  name  of  that 
divine  one  was  Hope. 

"  As  shadow  by  shadow  slipt  silently  into 
the  dark  road  behind  the  Grave,  I  saw  the 
Angel  touch  for  a  moment  every  pale  brow. 

"  I  knew  at  last  that  I  saw  beyond  the 
Grave.  Infinite  ways  traversed  the  uni- 
verse, wherein  suns  and  moons  and  stars  hung 
like  fruit.  Multitude  within  multitude  was 
there. 

"  Then,  again,   suddenly   I   stood   where   I 

56 


The  Divine  Adventure 

had  been,  and  saw  the  Grave  reopen,  and 
from  it  troop  back  a  myriad  of  bright 
and  beautiful  beings.  I  could  see  that 
some  were  souls  re-born,  some  were  lovely 
thoughts,  dreams,  hopes,  aspirations,  influ- 
ences, powers  and  mighty  spirits  too.  And  all 
sang: 

" '  We  are  the  Sons  of  Joy.' 

"  That  was  my  dream." 

We  were  still  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
the  Will  spoke. 

"  This  dream  of  ours  is  one  thing  as  the 
Body's,  and  another  as  the  Soul's.  It  is  yet 
another,  as  I  remember  it : — 

"  On  a  night  of  cold  silence,  when  the 
breath  of  the  equinox  sprayed  the  stars  into 
a  continuous  dazzle,  I  heard  the  honk  of  the 
wild  geese  as  they  cleft  their  way  wedge- 
wise  through  the  gulfs  overhead. 

"  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I  was  beyond 
the  last  shadow  of  the  last  wing. 

"  Before  me  lay  a  land  solemn  with  auroral 
light.  For  a  thousand  years,  that  were  as  a 
moment,  I  wandered  therein.  Then,  far  be- 
fore me,  I  saw  an  immense  semicircle  of  di- 
vine figures,  tall,  wonderful,  clothed  with 
moonfire,  each  with  uplifted  head,  as  a  forest 
before  a  wind.  To  the  right  they  held  the 
East,  and  to  the  left  the  West. 

57 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"'Who  are  you?'  I  cried,  as  I  drifted 
through  them  hke  a  mist  of  pale  smoke. 

" '  We  are  the  Laughing  Gods,'  they  an- 
swered. 

"  Then  after  I  had  drifted  on  beyond  the 
reach  of  sea  or  land,  to  a  frozen  solitude 
of  ice,  I  saw  again  a  vast  concourse  stretch- 
ing crescent-wise  from  east  to  west :  taller, 
more  wonderful,  crowned  with  stars,  and 
standing  upon  dead  moons  white  with  per- 
ished time. 

"  '  Who  are  you  ? '  I  cried,  as  I  went  past 
them  like  a  drift  of  pale  smoke. 

"  *  We  are  the  Gods  who  laugh  not/  they 
answered. 

"  Then  when  I  had  drifted  beyond  the  si- 
lence of  the  Pole,  and  there  was  nothing  but 
unhabitable  air,  and  the  dancing  fires  were  a 
flicker  in  the  pale  sheen  far  behind,  I  saw 
again  a  vast  concourse  stretching  crescent- 
wise  from  east  to  west.  They  were  taller 
still ;  they  were  more  wonderful  still.  They 
were  crowned  with  flaming  suns,  and  their 
feet  were  white  with  the  dust  of  ancient  con- 
stellations. 

"  '  Who  are  you  ?  '  I  cried,  as  I  went  past 
them  like  a  mist  of  pale  smoke. 

"  '  We  are  the  Gods,'  they  answered. 

"  And  while  I  waned  into  nothingness  I  felt 

58 


The  Divine  Adventure 

in  my  nostrils  the  salt  smell  of  the  sea,  and, 
listening,  I  heard  the  honk  of  the  wild  geese 
wedging  southward. 

"  That  was  my  dream." 

When  the  Will  ceased,  nothing  was  said. 
We  were  too  deeply  moved  by  strange 
thoughts,  one  and  all.  Was  it  always  to 
be  thus  .  .  .  that  we  might  dream  one 
dream,  confusedly  real,  confusedly  unreal, 
when  we  three  were  one ;  but  that  when  each 
dreamed  alone,  the  dream,  the  vision,  was 
ever  to  be  distinct  in  form  and  significance? 

We  lay  resting  for  long.  After  a  time  we 
slept.  I  cannot  remember  what  then  we 
dreamed,  but  I  know  that  these  three  dreams 
were  become  one,  and  that  what  the  Soul  saw 
and  what  the  Will  saw  and  what  the  Body 
saw  was  a  more  near  and  searching  revelation 
in  this  new  and  one  dream  than  in  any  of  the 
three  separately.  I  pondered  this,  trying  to 
remember :  but  the  deepest  dreams  are  al- 
ways unrememberable,  and  leave  only  a  fra- 
grance, a  sound  as  of  a  quiet  footfall  passing 
into  silence,  or  a  cry,  or  a  sense  of  something 
wonderful,  unimagined,  or  of  light  intolera- 
ble: but  I  could  recall  only  the  memory  of  a 
moment  ...  a  moment  wherein,  in  a  flash 
of  lightning,  I  had  seen  all,  understood  all. 

I  rose  .  .  .  there  was  a  dazzle  on  the  water, 

59 


The  Divine  Adventure 

a  shimmer  on  every  leaf,  a  falling  away  as  of 
walls  of  air  into  the  great  river  of  the  wind 
.  .  .  and  there  were  three,  not  one,  each 
staring  dazed  at  the  other,  in  the  ears  of  each 
the  bewilderment  of  the  already  faint  echo 
of  that  lost  "  I." 

VIII 

Towards  sundown  we  came  upon  a  hamlet, 
set  among  the  hills.  Our  hearts  had  beat 
quicker  as  we  drew  near,  for  with  the  glory 
of  light  gathered  above  the  west  the  moun- 
tains had  taken  upon  them  a  bloom  soft  and 
wonderful,  and  we  thought  that  at  last  we 
were  upon  the  gates  of  the  hills  towards 
which  we  had  journeyed  so  eagerly.  But 
when  we  reached  the  last  pines  on  the  ridge 
we  saw  the  wild  doves  flying  far  westward. 
Beyond  us,  under  a  pale  star,  dimly  visible  in 
a  waste  of  rose,  were  the  Hills  of  Dream. 

The  Soul  wished  to  go  to  them  at  once,  for 
now  they  seemed  so  near  to  us  that  we  might 
well  reach  them  with  the  rising  of  the  moon. 
But  the  others  were  tired,  nor  did  the  Hills 
seem  so  near  to  them.  So  we  sat  down  by 
the  peat-fire  in  a  shepherd's  cottage,  and  ate 
of  milk  and  porridge,  and  talked  with  the 
man  about  the  ways  of  that  district,  and  the 

60 


The  Divine  Adventufe 

hills,  and  how  best  to  reach  them.  "  If  you 
want  work,"  he  said,  "  you  should  go  away 
south,  where  the  towns  are,  an'  not  to  these 
lonely  hills.  They  are  so  barren,  that  even 
the  goatherds  no  longer  wander  their  beasts 
there." 

"  It's  said  they're  haunted,"  added  the 
Body,  seeing  that  the  others  did  not  speak. 

"  Ay,  sure  enough.  That's  well  known, 
master.  An'  for  the  matter  o'  that,  there's  a 
wood  down  there  to  the  right  where  for  three 
nights  past  I  have  seen  figures  and  the  gleam- 
ing of  fire.  But  there  isn't  a  soul  in  that 
wood — no,  not  a  wandering  tinker.  I  took 
my  dogs  through  it  to-day,  an'  there  wasn't 
the  sign  even  of  a  last-year's  gypsy.  As  for 
the  low  bare  hill  beyond  it,  not  a  man,  let 
alone  a  woman  or  child,  would  go  near  it  in 
the  dark.  In  the  Gaelic  it's  called  Maol  De, 
that  is  to  say,  the  Hill  of  God." 

For  a  long  time  we  sat  talking  with  the 
shepherd,  for  he  told  us  of  many  things  that 
were  strange,  and  some  that  were  beautiful, 
and  some  that  were  wild  and  terrible.  One 
of  his  own  brothers,  after  an  evil  life,  had  be- 
come mad,  and  even  now  lived  in  caves  among 
the  higher  hills,  going  ever  on  hands  and 
feet,  and  cursing  by  day  and  night  because  he 
was  made  as  one  of  the  wild  swine,  that  know 
6i 


The  Divine  Adventure 

only  hunger  and  rage  and  savage  sleep.  He 
himself  tended  lovingly  his  old  father,  who 
was  too  frail  to  work,  and  often  could  not 
sleep  at  nights  because  of  the  pleasant  but 
wearying  noise  the  fairies  made  as  they  met 
on  the  dancing-lawns  among  the  bracken. 
Our  friend  had  not  himself  heard  the  simple 
people,  and  in  a  whisper  confided  to  us  that 
he  thought  the  old  man  was  a  bit  mazed,  and 
that  what  he  heard  was  only  the  solitary  play- 
ing of  the  Amadan-Dhu,  who,  it  was  known 
to  all,  roamed  the  shadows  between  the  two 
dusks.  "  Keep  away  from  the  river  in  the 
hollow,"  he  said  at  another  moment,  "  for 
it's  there,  on  a  night  like  this,  just  before  the 
full  moon  got  up,  that,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I 
saw  the  Aonaran.  An'  to  this  day,  if  I  saw 
you  or  any  one  standing  by  the  water,  it  'ud 
be  all  I  could  do  not  to  thrust  you  into  it 
and  drown  you:  ay,  I'd  have  to  throw  myself 
on  my  face,  an'  bite  the  grass,  an'  pray  till  my 
soul  shook  the  murder  out  at  my  throat.  For 
that's  the  Aonaran's  doing." 

Later,  he  showed  us,  when  we  noticed  it,  a 
bit  of  smooth  coral  that  hung  by  a  coarse 
leathern  thong  from  his  neck. 

"Is  that  an  amulet?"  one  of  us  asked. 

"No:  it's  my  lassie's." 

We  looked  at  the  man  inquiringly. 
62 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  The  bairn's  dead  thirty  years  agone." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  one  of  us 
rose,  and  went  with  the  shepherd  into  the  lit- 
tle room  behind.  When  the  man  came  back  it 
was  with  a  wonderful  light  in  his  face.  Our 
comrade  did  not  return  .  .  .  but  when  we 
glanced  sidelong,  lo,  the  Soul  was  there,  as 
though  he  had  not  moved.  Then,  of  a  sud- 
den, we  knew  what  he  had  done,  what  he  had 
said,  and  were  glad. 

When  we  left  (the  shepherd  wanted  us  to 
stay  the  night,  but  we  would  not),  the  stars 
had  come.  The  night  was  full  of  solemn 
beauty. 

We  went  down  by  the  wood  of  which  the 
shepherd  had  spoken,  and  came  upon  it  as 
the  moon  rose.  But  as  a  path  bordered  it,  we 
followed  that  little  winding  white  gleam, 
somewhat  impatient  now  to  reach  those  far 
hills  where  each  of  us  believed  he  would  find 
his  heart's  desire,  or,  at  the  least,  have  that 
vision  of  absolute  Truth,  of  absolute  Beauty, 
which  we  had  set  out  to  find. 

We  had  not  gone  a  third  of  the  way  when 
the  Body  abruptly  turned,  waving  to  us  a 
warning  hand.  When  we  stood  together  si- 
lent, motionless,  we  saw  that  we  were  upon 
a  secret  garden.  We  were  among  ilex,  and 
beyond  were  tall  cypresses,  like  dark  flames 

63 


The  Divine  .idvcnture 

rising  out  of  the  earth,  their  hither  sides  Ht 
with  wavering  moonfire.  Far  away  the  hill- 
foxes  barked.  Somewhere  near  us  in  the 
dusk  an  owl  hooted.  The  nested  wild  doves 
were  silent.  Once,  the  faint  churr  of  a  dis- 
tant fern-owl  sent  a  vibrant  dissonance,  that 
was  yet  strangely  soothing,  through  the  dark- 
ness and  the  silence. 

"  Look !  "  whispered  the  Body, 

We  saw,  on  a  mossy  slope  under  seven 
great  cypresses,  a  man  lying  on  the  ground, 
asleep.  The  moonshine  reached  him  as  we 
looked,  and  revealed  a  face  of  so  much  beauty 
and  of  so  great  a  sorrow  that  the  heart  ached. 
Nevertheless,  there  was  so  infinite  a  peace 
there,  that,  merely  gazing  upon  it,  our  lives 
stood  still.  The  moonbeam  slowly  passed 
from  that  divine  face.  I  felt  my  breath  ris- 
ing and  falling,  like  a  feather  before  the 
mystery  of  the  wind  is  come.  Then,  the 
further  surprised,  we  saw  that  the  sleeper 
was  not  alone.  About  him  were  eleven  others, 
who  also  slept ;  but  of  these  one  sat  upright, 
as  though  the  watchman  of  the  dark  hour, 
slumbering  at  his  post. 

While  the   Body    stooped,   whispering,   we 

caught  sight  of  the  white  face  of  yet  another, 

behind  the  great  bole  of  a  tree.     This  man, 

the    twelfth    of    that    company    which    was 

64 


The  Divine  Adventure 

gathered  about  the  sleeper  in  its  midst,  stared, 
with  uplifted  hand.  In  his  other  hand,  and 
lowered  to  the  ground,  was  a  torch.  He 
stared  upon  the  Sleeper, 

Slowly  I  moved  forward.  But  whether  in 
so  doing,  or  by  so  doing,  we  broke  some 
subtle  spell,  which  had  again  made  us  as  one, 
I  know  not.  Suddenly  three  stood  in  that 
solitary  place,  with  none  beside  us,  neither 
sleeping  nor  watching,  neither  quick  nor 
dead.  Far  off  the  hill-foxes  barked.  Among 
the  cypress  boughs  an  owl  hooted,  and  was 
still. 

"  Have  we  dreamed  ? "  each  asked  the 
other.  Then  the  Body  told  what  he  had  seen, 
and  what  heard ;  and  it  was  much  as  is  writ- 
ten here,  only  that  the  sleepers  seemed  to  him 
worn  and  poor  men,  ill-clad,  weary,  and  that 
behind  the  white  face  of  the  twelfth,  who  hid 
behind  a  tree,  was  a  company  of  evil  men 
with  savage  faces,  and  fierce  eyes,  and  drawn 
swords. 

"  I  have  seen  nothing  of  all  this,"  said  the 
Will  harshly,  "  but  only  a  fire  drowning  in  its 
own  ashes,  round  which  a  maze  of  leaves 
circled  this  way  and  that,  blown  by  idle 
winds." 

The  Soul  looked  at  the  speaker.  He  sighed. 
"  Though  God  were  to  sow  living  fires  about 

65 


The  Divine  Adventur'e 

you,  O  Will,"  he  said,  "  you  would  not  be- 
lieve." 

The  Will  answered  dully:  "  I  have  but  one 
dream,  one  hope,  and  that  is  to  believe.  Do 
not  mock  me."  The  Soul  leaned  and  kissed 
him  lovingly  on  the  brow. 

"  Look,"  he  said ;  "  what  I  saw  was  this :  I 
beheld,  asleep,  the  Divine  Love ;  not  sleeping, 
as  mortals  sleep,  but  in  a  holy  quiet,  brooding 
upon  infinite  peace,  and  in  commune  with  the 
Eternal  Joy.  Around  him  were  the  Nine 
Angels,  the  Crais  nan  Aijigcal  of  our  prayers, 
and  two  Seraphs — the  Eleven  Powers  and 
Dominions  of  the  World.  And  One  stared 
upon  them,  and  upon  Him,  out  of  the  dark 
wood,  with  a  face  white  with  despair,  that 
great  and  terrible  Lord  of  Shadow  whom 
some  call  Death,  and  some  Evil,  and  some 
Fear,  and  some  the  Unknown  God.  Behind 
him  was  a  throng  of  demons  and  de- 
moniac creatures :  and  all  died  continually. 
And  the  wood  itself — it  was  an  infinite  for- 
est; a  forest  of  human  souls  awaiting 
God." 

The  Will  listened,  with  eyes  strangely 
ashine.  Suddenly  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  and 
prayed.  We  saw  tears  falling  from  his 
eyes. 

"  I  am  blind  and  deaf,"  he  whispered  in  the 
66 


The  Divine  Adventure 

ear  of  the  Body,  as  he  rose ;  but,  lest  I  for- 
get, tell  me  where   I   am,  in   what  place  we 

— — «  " 
are. 

"  It  is  a  garden  called  Gethsemane,"  an- 
swered the  other — though  I  know  not  how  he 
knew — I — we — as  we  walked  onward  in  si- 
lence through  the  dusk  of  moon  and  star,  and 
saw  the  gossamer-webs  whiten  as  they  be- 
came myriad,  and  hang  heavy  with  the  pale 
glister  of  the  dews  of  dawn. 


IX 


The  morning  twilight  wavered,  and  it  was 
as  though  an  incalculable  host  of  grey  doves 
fled  upward  and  spread  earthward  before  a 
wind  with  pinions  of  rose :  then  the  dappled 
dove-grey  vapour  faded,  and  the  rose  hung 
like  the  reflection  of  crimson  fire,  and  dark 
isles  of  ruby  and  straits  of  amethyst 
and  pale  gold  and  safifron  and  April-green 
came  into  being:  and  the  new  day  was 
come. 

We  stood  silent.  There  is  a  beauty  too 
great.  We  moved  slowly  round  by  the  low 
bare  hill  beyond  the  wood.  No  one  was 
there,  but  on  the  summit  stood  three  crosses; 
one,  midway,  so  great  that  it  threw  a  shadow 

67 


The  Divine  Adventiife 

from  the  brow  of  the  East  to  the  feet  of  the 
West. 

The  Soul  stopped.  He  seemed  as  one 
rapt.  We  looked  upon  him  with  awe,  for  his 
face  shone  as  though  from  as  light  within. 
"  Listen,"  he  whispered,  "  I  hear  the  singing 
of  the  Sons  of  Joy.  Farewell :  I  shall  come 
again." 

We  were  alone,  we  two.  Silently  we 
walked  onward.  The  sun  rays  slid  through 
the  grass,  birds  sang,  the  young  world  that 
is  so  old  smiled :  but  we  had  no  heed  for  this. 
In  that  new  solitude  each  almost  hated  the 
other.  At  noon  a  new  grief,  a  new  terror, 
came  to  us.  We  were  upon  a  ridge,  looking 
westward.     There  were  no  hills  anywhere. 

Doubtless  the  Soul  had  gone  that  way 
which  led  to  them.  For  us  .  .  .  they  were 
no  longer  there. 

"  Let  us  turn  and  go  home,"  said  the 
Body  wearily. 

The  Will  stood  and  thought. 

"  Let  us  go  home,"  he  said. 

With  .that  he  turned,  and  walked  hour 
after  hour.  It  was  by  a  road  unknown  to 
us,  for,  not  noting  where  we  went,  we  had 
traversed  a  path  that  led  us  wide  of  that  by 
which  we  had  come.  At  least  we  saw  nothing 
of  it.  Nor,  at  dusk,  would  the  Will  go 
68 


The  Divine  Adventure 

further,  nor  agree  even  to  seek  for  a  path 
that  might  lead  to  the  garden  called  Gethse- 
mane. 

"  We  are  far  from  it,"  he  said,  "  if  indeed 
there  be  any  such  place.  It  was  a  dream, 
and  I  am  weary  of  all  dreams.  When  we 
are  home  again,  O  Body,  we  will  dream  no 
more." 

The  Body  was  silent,  then  abruptly 
laughed.  His  comrade  looked  at  him  curi- 
ously. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"  Did  you  not  say  there  would  be  no  more 
tears?    And  of  that  I  am  glad." 

"  You  did  not  laugh  gladly.  But  what  I 
said  was  that  there  shall  be  no  more  dreams 
for  us,  that  we  will  dream  no  more." 

"  It  is  the  same  thing.  W^e  have  tears  be- 
cause we  dream.  If  we  hope  no  more,  we 
dream  no  more :  if  we  dream  no  more,  we 
weep  no  more.  And  I  laughed  because  of 
this :  that  if  we  weep  no  more  we  can  live  as 
we  like,  without  thought  of  an  impossible  to- 
morrow, and  with  little  thought  even  for  to- 
day." 

For  a  time  we  walked  in  brooding  thought, 
but  slowly,  because  of  the  gathering  dark. 
Neither  spoke,  until  the  Body  suddenly  stood 
still,  throwing  up  his  arms. 

69 


The  Divine  Adventure 

"  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  have  been !  What  a 
fool  I  have  been !  " 

The  \\  ill  made  no  reply.  He  stared  before 
him  into  the  darkness. 

We  had  meant  to  rest  in  the  haven  of  the 
great  oaks,  but  a  thin  rain  had  begun,  and  we 
shivered  with  the  chill.  The  thought  came  to 
us  to  turn  and  find  our  way  back  to  the  house 
of  the  shepherd,  hopeless  as  the  quest  might 
prove,  for  we  were  more  and  more  bewil- 
dered as  to  where  we  were,  or  even  as  to  the 
direction  in  which  we  moved,  being  without 
pilot  of  moon  or  star,  and  having  already  fol- 
lowed devious  ways.  But  while  we  were  hes- 
itating, we  saw  a  light.  The  red  flame  shone 
steadily  through  the  rainy  gloom,  so  we  knew 
that  it  was  no  lantern  borne  by  a  fellow-way- 
farer. In  a  brief  while  we  came  upon  it, 
and  saw  that  it  was  from  a  red  lamp  burning 
midway  in  a  forest  chapel. 

We  lifted  the  latch  and  entered.  There 
was  no  one  visible.  Nor  was  any  one  in  the 
sacristy.  We  went  to  the  door  again,  and 
looked  vainly  in  all  directions  for  light  which 
might  reveal  a  neighbouring  village,  or  ham- 
let, or  even  a  woodlander's  cottage. 

Glad  as  we  were  of  the  shelter,  and  of  the 
glow  from  the  lamp,  a  thought,  a  dream,  a 
desire,  divided  us.    We  looked  at  each  other 

70 


The  Divine  Adventufe 

sidelong,  each  both  seeking  and  avoiding  the 
other's  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  stay  here,"  said  the  Body  at 
last;  "the  place  stifles  me.  I  am  frightened 
to  stay.  The  path  outside  is  clear  and  well 
trodden ;  it  must  lead  somewhere,  and  as  this 
chapel  is  here,  and  as  the  lamp  is  lit,  a  vil- 
lage, or  at  least  a  house,  cannot  be  far  off." 

The  Will  looked  at  him. 

"  Do  not  go,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"Why?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  But  do  not  let  us  part. 
I  dare  not  leave  here.  I  feel  as  though  this 
were  our  one  safe  haven  to-night." 

The  Body  moved  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"  I  am  going.  And — and — I  am  going,  too, 
because  I  am  tired  both  of  you  and  the  Soul. 
There  is  only  one  way  for  me,  I  see,  and  I  go 
that  way.     Farewell." 

The  door  closed.  The  Will  was  alone. 
For  a  few  moments  he  stood,  smiling  scorn- 
fully. With  a  sudden  despairing  gesture  he 
ran  to  the  door,  flung  it  open,  and  peered  into 
the  darkness. 

He  could  see  no  one ;  could  hear  no  steps. 
His  long  beseeching  cry  drowned  among 
these  solitudes.  Slowly  he  re-closed  the 
door ;  slowly  walked  across  the  stone  flags ; 
and  with  folded  arms  stood  looking  upon  the 

71 


TJic  Divine  Adventure 

altar,  dyed  crimson  with  the  glow  from  the 
great  lamp  which  hung  midway  in  the  nave. 

There  was  a  choir-stall  to  his  right.  Here 
he  sat,  for  a  time  glad  merely  to  be  at  rest. 

Soon  all  desire  of  sleep  went  from  him,  and 
he  began  to  dream.  At  this  he  smiled :  it  was 
so  brief  a  while  ago  since  he  had  said  he 
would  dream  no  more. 

Away  now  from  his  two  lifelong  comrades, 
and  yet  subtly  connected  with  them,  and  liv- 
ing by  and  through  each,  he  felt  a  new  lone- 
liness. Life  could  be  very  terrible.  Life 
,  .  .  the  word  startled  him.  What  life  could 
there  be  for  him  if  the  Body  perished?  That 
was  why  he  had  cried  out  in  anguish  after  his 
comrade  had  left,  with  that  ominous  word 
"  farewell."  True,  now  he  lived,  breathed, 
thought,  as  before :  but  this,  he  knew,  was  by 
some  inexplicable  miracle  of  personality,  by 
Avhich  the  three  who  had  been  one  were  each 
enabled  to  go  forth,  fulfilling,  and  in  all  ways 
ruled  and  abiding  by,  the  natural  law.  If  the 
Body  should  die,  would  he  not  then  become 
as  a  breath  in  frost?  If  the  Soul  ...  ah ! 
he  wondered  what  then  would  happen. 

"  When  I  was  with  the  Body,"  he  mut- 
tered, "  I  was  weary  of  dreams,  or  longed 
only  for  those  dreams  which  could  be  ful- 
filled in  action.     But  now  .  .  .  now  it  is  dif- 


The  Divine  Adventure 

ferent.  I  am  alone.  I  must  follow  my  own 
law.  But  what  .  .  .  how  .  .  .  where  .  .  . 
am  I  to  choose?  All  the  world  is  a  wilder- 
ness with  a  heart  of  living  light.  The  side 
we  see  is  Life :  the  side  we  do  not  see  we  call 
Hope.  All  ways — a  thousand  myriad  ways 
— lead  to  it.  Which  shall  I  choose?  How 
shall  I  go  ?  " 

Then  I  began  to  dream  ...  I  ...  we 
.  .  .  then  the  Will  began  to  dream. 

Slowly  the  Forest  Chapel  filled  with  a  vast 
throng,  ever  growing  more  dense  as  it  be- 
came more  multitudinous,  till  it  seemed  as 
though  the  walls  fell  away  and  that  the  aisles 
reached  interminably  into  the  world  of  sha- 
dow, through  the  present  into  the  past,  and  to 
dim  ages. 

Behind  the  altar  stood  a  living  Spirit, 
most  wonderful,  clothed  with  Beauty  and 
Terror, 

Then  the  Will  saw,  understood,  that  this 
was  not  the  Christ,  nor  yet  the  Holy  Spirit, 
but  a  Dominion.  It  was  the  Spirit  of  this 
world,  one  of  the  Powers  and  Dominions 
whom  of  old  men  called  the  gods.  But  all 
in  that  incalculable  throng  worshipped  this 
Spirit  as  the  Supreme  God.  He  saw,  too,  or 
realised,  that,  to  those  who  worshipped,  this 
Spirit   appeared  differently,  now   as  a   calm 

7Z 


The  Divine  Adventure 

and  august  dreamer,  now  as  an  inspired  war- 
rior, now  as  a  man  wearing  a  crown  of  thorns 
against  the  shadow  of  a  gigantic  cross :  as  the 
Son  of  God,  or  the  Prophet  of  God,  or  in 
manifold  ways  the  Supreme  One,  from  Jeho- 
vah to  the  savage  Fetich. 

Turning  from  that  ocean  of  drowned  hfe, 
he  looked  again  at  the  rainbow-plumed  and 
opal-hued  Spirit :  but  now  he  could  see  no 
one,  nothing,  but  a  faint  smoke  that  rose  as 
from  a  torch  held  by  an  invisible  hand.  The 
altar  stood  unserved. 

Nor  was  the  multitude  present.  The  my- 
riad had  become  a  wavering  shadow,  and  was 
no  more. 

A  child  had  entered  the  church.  The  little 
boy  came  slowly  along  the  nave  till  he  stood 
beneath  the  red  lamp,  so  that  his  white  robe 
was  warm  with  its  glow.  He  sang,  and  the 
Will  thought  it  was  a  strange  song  to  hear  in 
that  place,  and  wondered  if  the  child  were 
not  an  image  of  what  was  in  his  own  heart. 

When  the  day  darkens, 
When  dusk  grows  light, 
When  the  dew  is  falHng, 

When  Silence  dreams  .  .  . 
I  hear  a  wind 
Calling,  calling 
By  day  and  by  night. 

74 


The  Divine  Adventure 

What  is  the  wind 
That  I  hear  calling 
By  day  and  by  night, 
The  crying  of  wind? 
When  the  day  darkens, 
When  dusk  grows  light, 
When  the  dew  is  falling? 

The  Will  rose  and  moved  towards  the 
child.  No  one  was  there,  but  he  saw  that  a 
wind-eddy  blew  about  the  altar,  for  a  little 
cloud  of  rose-leaves  swirled  above  it.  As  in 
a  dream  he  heard  a  voice,  faint  and  sweet : — 

Out  of  the  Palace 

Of  Silence  and  Dreams 

My  voice  is  falling 

From  height  to  height: 
I  am  the  Wind 
Calling,  calling 
By  day  and  by  night. 

The  red  flame  waned  and  was  no  more. 
Above  the  altar  a  white  flame,  pure  as  an  opal 
burning  in  moonfire,  rose  for  a  moment,  and 
in  a  moment  was  mysteriously  gathered  into 
the  darkness. 

Startled,  the  Will  stood  moveless  in  the  ob- 
scurity. Were  these  symbols  of  the  end — the 
red  flame  and  the  white  .  .  .  the  Body  and 
the  Soul? 

Then  he  remembered  the  ancient  wisdom 

75 


The  Divine  Adventure 

of  the  Gael,  and  went  out  of  the  Forest  Chapel 
and  passed  into  the  woods.  He  put  his  Hps 
to  the  earth,  and  lifted  a  green  leaf  to  his 
brow,  and  held  a  branch  to  his  ear :  and  be- 
cause he  was  no  longer  heavy  with  the  sweet 
clay  of  mortality,  though  yet  of  the  human 
clan,  he  heard  that  which  we  do  not  hear,  and 
saw  that  which  we  do  not  see,  and  knew  that 
which  we  do  not  know.  All  the  green  life 
was  his.  In  that  new  world  he  saw  the  lives 
of  trees,  now  pale  green,  now  of  woodsmoke 
blue,  now  of  amethyst:  the  grey  lives  of 
stone :  breaths  of  the  grass  and  reed :  creatures 
of  the  air,  delicate  and  wild  as  fawns,  or 
swift  and  fierce  and  terrible,  tigers  of  that 
undiscovered  wilderness,  with  birds  almost 
invisible  but  for  their  luminous  wings,  their 
opalescent  crests. 

With  these  and  the  familiar  natural  life, 
with  every  bird  and  beast  kindred  and  know- 
ing him  kin,  he  lived  till  the  dawn,  and  from 
the  dawn  till  sunrise,  and  from  sunrise  till 
noon.  At  noon  he  slept.  W'hen  he  woke  he 
saw  that  he  had  wandered  far,  and  was  glad 
when  he  came  to  a  woodlandcr's  cottage. 
Here  a  woman  gave  him  milk  and  bread,  but 
she  was  dumb,  and  he  could  learn  nothing 
from  her.  She  showed  him  a  way  which  he 
followed;  and  by  that  high  upland  path,  be- 
76 


The  Divine  Adventiite 

fore  sundown,  he  came  again  upon  the  For- 
est Chapel,  and  saw  that  it  stood  on  a  spur  of 
blue  hills. 

Were  it  not  for  a  great  and  startling  weak- 
ness that  had  suddenly  come  upon  him,  he 
would  have  gone  in  search  of  his  lost  com- 
rade. While  he  lay  with  his  back  against  a 
tree,  vaguely  wondering  what  ill  had  come 
upon  him,  he  heard  a  sound  of  wheels.  Soon 
after  a  rough  cart  was  driven  rapidly  towards 
the  Forest  Chapel,  but  when  the  countryman 
saw  him  he  reined  in  abruptly,  as  though  at 
once  recognising  one  whom  he  had  set  out 
to  seek.  "Your  friend  is  dying,"  he  said; 
"  come  at  once  if  you  want  to  see  him  again. 
He  sent  me  to  look  for  you." 

In  a  moment  all  lassitude  and  pain  went 
from  the  Will,  and  he  sprang  into  the  cart, 
asking  (while  his  mind  throbbed  with  a 
dreadful  anxiety)  many  questions.  But  all 
he  could  learn  from  his  taciturn  companion 
was  that  yester  eve  his  comrade  had  fallen 
in  with  a  company  of  roystering  and  loose 
folk,  with  whom  he  had  drunk  heavily  over- 
night and  gamed  and  lived  evilly;  that  all 
this  day  he  had  lain  as  in  a  stupor,  till  the 
afternoon,  when  he  awoke  and  straightway 
fell  into  a  quarrel  about  a  woman,  and,  after 
fierce   words  and  blows,  had  been  mortally 

77 


The  Divine  Adventure 

wounded  with  a  knife.  He  was  now  lying,  al- 
most in  the  grasp  of  death,  at  the  Inn  of  the 
Crossways. 

In  the  whirl  of  anxiety,  dread,  and  a  new 
and  terrible  confusion,  the  Will  could  not 
think  clearly  as  to  what  he  was  to  say  or  do, 
what  was  to  be  or  could  be  done  for  his 
friend.  And  while  he  was  still  swayed  help- 
lessly, this  way  and  that,  as  a  herring  in  a 
net  drifted  to  and  fro  by  wind  and  wave,  the 
Inn  was  reached. 

With  stumbling  eagerness  he  mounted  the 
rough  stairs,  and  entered  a  small  room,  clean, 
though  almost  sordid  in  its  bareness,  yet 
through  its  western  window  filled  with  the 
solemn  light  of  sunset. 

On  a  white  bed  lay  the  Body,  and  the  Will 
saw  at  a  glance  that  his  comrade  had  not 
long  to  live.  The  handkerchief  the  sufferer 
held  on  his  breast  was  stained  with  the 
bright  crimson  of  the  riven  lungs ;  his 
white  face  was  whiter  than  the  pillow,  the 
more  so,  as  a  red  splatch  lay  on  each 
cheek. 

The  dying  man  opened  his  eyes  as  the  door 
opened.  He  smiled  gladly  when  he  saw  who 
had  come. 

"  I  am  glad  indeed  of  this,"  he  whispered. 
"  I   feared  I   was  to  die  alone,  and  in  delir- 

78 


The  Divine  Adventure 

ium  or  unconsciousness.  Now  I  shall  not  be 
alone  till  the  end.     And  then " 

But  here  the  Will  sank  upon  his  knees  by 
the  bedside.  For  a  few  minutes  his  tears  fell 
upon  the  hand  he  clasped.  The  sobs  shook 
in  his  throat.  He  had  never  fully  realised 
what  love  he  bore  his  comrade,  his  second 
self;  how  interwrought  with  him  were  all  his 
joys  and  sorrows,  his  interests,  his  hopes  and 
fears. 

Suddenly,  with  supplicating  arms,  he  cried, 
"  Do  not  die !  Oh,  do  not  die !  Save  me, 
save  me,  save  me !  " 

"  How  can  I  save  you,  how  can  I  help  you, 
dear  friend  ?  "  asked  the  Body  in  a  broken 
voice ;  "  my  sand  is  all  but  run  out ;  my  hour 
is  come." 

"  But  do  you  not  know,  do  you  not  see, 
that  I  cannot  live  without  you ! — that  I  must 
die — that  if  you  perish  so  must  I  also  pass 
with  your  passing  breath !  " 

"  No — no — no ! — for,  see,  we  are  no  longer 
one,  but  three.  The  Soul  is  far  from  us  now, 
and  soon  you  too  will  be  gone  on  your  own 
way.  It  is  only  I  who  can  go  no  more  into 
the  beautiful  dear  world.  O  Will,  if  I  could, 
I  would  give  all  your  knowledge  and  endless 
quest  of  wisdom  and  all  your  hopes,  and  all 
the  dreams  and  the  white  faith  of  the  Soul, 

79 


The  Divine  Adventure 

for  one  little  year  of  sweet  human  life — for 
one  month  even — ah,  what  do  I  say,  for  a 
few  days  even,  for  a  day,  for  a  few  hours ! 
It  is  so  terrible  thus  to  be  stamped  out. 
Yesterday  I  saw  a  dog  leaping  and  barking  in 
delight  as  it  raced  about  a  wagon,  and  then  in 
a  moment  a  foot  caught  and  it  was  entangled, 
and  the  wagon-wheel  crushed  it  into  a  lifeless 
mass.  There  was  no  dog;  for  that  poor 
beast  it  was  the  same  as  though  it  had  never 
been,  as  though  the  world  had  never  been,  as 
though  nothing  more  was  to  be.  He  was  a 
breath  blown  unremembering  out  of  nothing 
into  nothing.  That  is  what  death  is.  That 
is  what  death  is,  O  Will !  " 

"  No,  no,  it  is  too  horrible — too  cruel — too 
unjust." 

"  Yes,  for  you.  But  not  for  me.  Your 
way  is  not  the  way  of  death,  but  of  life.  For 
me,  I  am  as  the  beasts  are,  their  sorry  lord, 
but  akin — oh  yes,  akin,  akin.  I  follow  the 
natural  law  in  all  things.  And  I  know  this 
now,  dear  comrade :  that  without  you  and  the 
Soul  I  should  have  been  no  other  than 
the  brutes  that  know  nothing  save  their 
innocent  lusts  and  live  and  die  without 
thought." 

The  Will  slowly  rose. 

"  It  was   madness   for  us  to   separate  and 

80 


The  Divine  Adventure 

come  upon  this  quest,"  he  said,  looking  long- 
ingly at  the  Body. 

"  Not  so,  dear  friend.  We  should  have 
had  to  separate  soon  or  late,  whatsoever  we 
had  done.  If  I  have  feared  you  at  times,  and 
turn  from  you  often,  I  have  loved  you  well, 
and  still  more  the  Soul.  I  think  you  have 
both  lied  to  me  overmuch,  and  you  mostly. 
But  I  forgive  what  I  know  was  done  in  love 
and  hope.  And  you,  O  Will,  forgive  me  for 
all  I  have  brought,  what  I  now  bring,  upon 
you ;  forgive  the  many  thwartings  and  dull 
indifference  and  heavy  drag  I  have  so  often, 
oh,  so  often  been  to  you.  For  now  death  is 
at  hand.  But  I  have  one  thing  I  wish  to  ask 
you." 

"  Speak." 

"  Before  my  life  was  broken,  there  was 
one  whom  I  loved.  Every  hope,  every  dream, 
every  joy,  every  sorrow  that  I  had  came  from 
this  love.  It  was  her  death  which  broke  my 
life — not  only  for  the  piteous  loss  and  all  it 
meant  to  me,  but  because  death  came  with 
tragic  heedlessness — for  she  was  young,  and 
strong,  and  beautiful.  And  before  she  died, 
she  said  we  should  meet  again.  I  was  never, 
and  now  am  far  the  less  worthy  of  her ;  and 
yet — and  yet — oh,  if  only  that  great,  beautiful 
love  were  all  I  had  to  doubt  or  fear,  I  should 
8i 


The  Divine  Adventure 

have  no  doubt  or  fear !  But  no — no — we 
shall  never  meet.  How  can  we?  Before  to- 
morrow I  shall  be  like  that  crushed  dog,  and 
not  be:  just  as  if  I  had  never  been!  " 

The  blood  rose,  and  sobs  and  tears  made 
further  words  inaudible.  But  after  a  little 
the  Body  spoke  again, 

"  But  you,  O  Will,  you  and  the  Soul  both 
resemble  me.  We  are  as  flowers  of  the  same 
colour,  as  clay  of  the  same  mould.  It  may  be 
you  shall  meet  her.  Tell  her  that  my  last 
thought  was  of  her;  take  her  all  my  dreams 
and  hopes — and  say — and  say — say " 

But  here  the  Body  sat  up  in  the  bed,  ash- 
white,  with  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes. 

"  What  ?  Quick,  quick,  dear  Body — 
say? " 

"  Say  that  I  loved  best  that  in  her  which  I 
loved  best  in  myself — the  Soul.  Tell  her  I 
have  never  wholly  despaired.  Ah,  if  only  the 
Soul  were  here,  I  would  not  even  now  de- 
spair! Tell  her  I  leave  all  to  the  Soul — and 
— and — love  shall  triumph " 

There  was  a  rush  of  blood,  a  gurgling  cry, 
and  the  Body  sank  back  lifeless.  In  the  very 
moment  of  death  the  eyes  lightened  with  a 
wonderful  radiance — it  was  as  though  the 
evening  stars  suddenly  came  through  the 
dark. 

82 


The  Divine  Adventure 

The  Will  looked  to  see  wlience  it  came. 
The  Soul  stood  beside  him,  white,  wonder- 
ful, radiant. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  said. 

"  For  me  ?  "  said  the  Will,  shaking  as  with 
an  ague,  yet  in  bitter  irony. 

"  Yes,  for  you,  and  for  the  Body  too." 

"  For  the  Body  ? — see,  he  is  already  clay. 
What  word  have  you  to  say  to  that,  to  me 
who  likewise  am  already  perishing? 

"  This — do  you  remember  what  so  brief  a 
while  ago  we  three  as  one  wrote — wrote  with 
my  spirit,  through  your  mind,  and  tlie  Body's 
hand — these  words :  Love  is  more  great  than 
ive  conceive,  and  Death  is  the  keeper  of  un- 
known redcuiptionsf  " 

*'  Yes — yes — O  Soul !  I  remember,  I  re- 
member." 

"  It  was  true  there :  it  is  true  here.  Have 
I  not  ever  told  you  thr.t  Love  would  save?" 

With  that  the  Soul  moved  over  to  the  bed- 
side, and  kissed  the  Body. 

"  Farewell,  fallen  leaf.  But  the  tree  lives 
— and  beyond  the  tree  is  the  wind,  the  breath 
of  the  eternal." 

"  Look,"  he  added,  "  our  comrade  is  still 
asleep,  though  now  no  mortal  skill  could 
nourish  the  hidden  spark  " ;  and  with  that  he 
stooped  and  kissed  again  the  silent  lips  and 

83 


TJie  Divine  Adventure 

the  still  brow  and  the  pulseless  heart,  and 
suddenly  a  breath,  an  essence,  came  from  the 
body,  in  form  like  itself,  a  phantom,  yet  en- 
dued with  a  motion  of  life. 

As  the  faintest  murmur  in  a  shell  we  heard 
him  whisper,  Life!  Life!  Life!  Then,  as  a 
blown  vapour,  he  was  one  with  us.  A  singu- 
lar change  came  upon  the  clay  which  had 
once  been  so  near  and  dear  to  us :  a  frozen 
whiteness  that  had  not  been  there  before,  a 
stillness  as  of  ancient  marble. 

The  Will  stood,  appalled,  with  v/ild  eyes. 
Some  dreadful  invisible  power  was  upon  him. 

"  Lost !  "  he  cried ;  and  now  his  voice,  too, 
was  faint  as  a  murmur  in  a  shell.  But  the 
Soul  smiled. 

Then  the  Will  grew  grey  as  a  willow-leaf 
aslant  in  the  wind ;  and  as  the  shadow  of  a 
reed  wavered  in  the  wind ;  and  as  a  reed's 
shadow  is  and  is  not,  so  was  he  suddenly  no 
more. 

But,  in  the  miracle  of  a  moment,  the  Soul 
appeared  in  the  triple  mystery  of  substance, 
and  mind,  and  spirit.  In  full  and  joyous  life 
the  Will  stood  re-born,  and  now  we  three 
were  one  again. 

I  looked  for  the  last  time  on  that  which  had 
been  our  home.  The  lifeless  thing  lay,  most 
terribly  still  and  strange ;  yet  with  a  dignity 
84 


The  Divine  Adventure 

that  came  as  a  benediction,  for  this  dead  tem- 
ple of  hfe  had  yielded  to  a  divine  law,  allied 
not  to  shadow  and  decay,  but  to  the  recur- 
rent spring,  to  the  eternal  ebb  and  flow,  to 
the  infinite  processional.  It  is  we  of  the  hu- 
man clan  only  who  are  troubled  by  the  vast 
waste  and  refuse  of  life.  There  is  not  any 
such  waste,  neither  in  the  myriad  spawn  nor 
the  myriad  seed :  a  Spirit  sows  by  a  law  we  do 
not  see,  and  reaps  by  a  law  we  do  not  know. 

Then  I  turned  and  went  to  the  western 
window.  I  saw  that  the  Inn  stood  upon  the 
Hills  of  Dream,  yet,  when  I  looked  within, 
I  knew  that  I  was  again  in  my  familiar  home. 
Once  more,  beyond  the  fuchsia  bushes,  the 
sea  sighed,  as  it  felt  the  long  shore  with  a 
continuous  foamless  wave.  In  the  little  room 
below,  the  lamp  was  lit;  for  the  glow  fell 
warmly  upon  the  gravel  path,  shell-bordered, 
and  upon  the  tufted  mignonette,  sea-pinks, 
and  feathery  southernwood.  The  sound  of 
hushed  voices  rose. 

And  now  the  dawn  is  come,  and  I  have 
written  this  record  of  what  we,  who  are  now 
indeed  one,  but  far  more  truly  and  intimately 
than  before,  went  out  to  seek.  In  another 
hour  I  shall  go  hence,  a  wayfarer  again.  I 
have  a  long  road  to  travel,  but  am  sustained 
by  joy,  and  uplifted  by  a  great  hope.    When, 

85 


The  Divine  Adventure 

tired,  I  lay  down  the  pen,  and  with  it  the  last 
of  mortal  uses,  it  will  be  to  face  the  glory  of 
a  new  day.  I  have  no  fear.  I  shall  not  leave 
all  I  have  loved,  for  I  have  that  in  me  which 
binds  me  to  this  beautiful  world,  for  another 
life  at  least,  it  may  be  for  many  lives.  And 
that  within  me  which  dreamed  and  hoped 
shall  now  more  gladly  and  wonderfully 
dream,  and  hope,  and  seek,  and  know,  and 
see  ever  deeper  and  further  into  the  mystery 
of  beauty  and  truth.  And  that  within  me, 
which  knew,  now  knozvs.  In  the  deepest 
sense  there  is  no  spiritual  dream  that  is  not 
true,  no  hope  that  shall  for  ever  go  famished, 
no  tears  that  shall  not  be  gathered  into  the 
brooding  skies  of  compassion,  to  fall  again  in 
healing  dews. 

What  the  Body  could  not,  nor  ever  could 
see,  and  what  to  the  Will  was  a  darkness,  or 
at  best  a  bewildering  mist,  is  now  clear. 
There  are  mysteries  of  which  I  cannot  write ; 
not  from  any  occult  secret,  but  because  they 
are  so  simple  and  inevitable,  that,  like  the 
mystery  of  day  and  night,  or  the  change  of 
the  seasons,  or  life  and  death,  they  must  be 
learned  by  each,  in  his  own  way,  in  his  own 
hour.  It  is  out  of  their  light  that  I  see ;  it  is 
by  these  stars  that  I  set  forth,  where  else  I 
should  be  as  a  shadow  upon  a  trackless  waste. 
86 


The  Divine  Adventure 

But  Love,  I  am  come  to  realise,  is  the 
supreme  deflecting  force.  Love  "  unloosens 
sins,"  unites  failure,  disintegrates  the  act; 
not  by  an  inconceivable  conflict  with  the  im- 
mutable law  of  consequence,  but  by  deflection. 
For  the  divine  love  follows  the  life,  and  turns 
and  meets  it  at  last,  and  in  that  meeting  de- 
flects :  so  that  that  which  is  mortal,  evil,  and 
what  is  of  the  mortal  law,  the  act,  sinks ;  and 
on  the  forehead  of  the  divine  law  that  which 
is  alone  inevitable  survives  and  moves  onward 
in  the  rhythm  that  is  life.  When  we  under- 
stand the  mystery  of  Redemption,  we  shall 
understand  what  Love  is.  The  expiatory  is 
an  unknown  attribute  in  the  Divine.  Expia- 
tion is  but  the  earthly  burnt-ofl^ering  of  that 
in  us  which  is  mortal :  Redemption,  which  is 
the  spiritual  absorption  of  the  expiation  due 
to  others,  and  the  measureless  restitution  in 
love  of  wrong  humbly  brought  to  the  soul 
and  consumed  there — so  that  it  issues  a  living 
force  to  meet  and  deflect — is  the  living  wit- 
ness in  that  of  us  which  is  immortal.  Those 
who  wrong  us  do  indeed  become  our  saviours. 
It  is  their  expiation  that  we  make  ours:  they 
must  go  free  of  us ;  and  when  they  come 
again  and  discrown  us,  then  in  love  we 
shall  be  at  one  and  equal.  So  far,  words 
may   clothe   thought;   but,   beyond,   the    soul 

87 


The  Divine  Adventure 

knows  there  is  no  expiation.  Except  you 
redeem  yourself,  there  is  no  God.  Forgive- 
ness is  the  dream  of  Httle  children :  beau- 
tiful because  thus  far  we  see  and  know,  but 
no  farther. 

I  see  now  what  madness  it  was,  as  so  often 
happened,  to  despise  the  body.  But  one  mys- 
tery has  become  clear  to  me  through  this 
strange  quest  of  ours — though  when  I  say 
"  I,"  or  "  our,"  I  know  not  whether  it  is  the 
Body  or  the  Will  or  the  Soul  that  speaks, 
till  I  remember  that  triune  marriage  at  the 
deathbed,  and  know  that  while  each  is  con- 
sciously each — the  one  with  memory,  the 
other  with  knowledge  and  hope,  the  third 
with  wisdom  and  faith — we  are  yet  one,  as 
are  the  yellow  and  the  white  and  the  violet 
in  the  single  flame  in  this  candle  beside  me. 
And  this  mystery  is,  that  the  body  was  not 
built  of  life-warmed  clay  merely  to  be  the 
house  of  the  soul.  Were  it  so,  were  the  soul 
unwed  to  its  mortal  comrades,  it  would  be  no 
more  than  a  moment's  uplifted  wave  on  an 
infinite  sea.  Without  memory,  without  hope, 
it  would  be  no  more  than  a  breath  of  the 
Spirit.  But  before  the  Divine  Power  moulded 
us  into  substance,  we  were  shaped  by  it  in 
form.  And  form  is,  in  the  spiritual  law, 
what  the  crystal  is  in  the  chemic  law. 


The  Divine  Adventure 

For  now  I  see  clearly  that  the  chief  end  of 
the  body  is  to  enable  the  soul  to  come  into 
intimate  union  with  the  natural  law,  so  that 
it  may  fulfil  the  divine  law  of  Form,  and  be 
at  one  with  all  created  life  and  yet  be  for 
ever  itself  and  individual.  By  itself  the  soul 
would  only  vainly  aspire;  it  has  to  learn  to 
remember,  to  become  at  one  with  the  wind 
and  the  grass  and  with  all  that  lives  and 
moves ;  to  take  its  life  from  the  root  of  the 
body,  and  its  green  life  from  the  mind,  and 
its  flower  and  fragrance  from  what  it  may  of 
itself  obtain,  not  only  from  this  world,  but 
from  its  own  dews,  its  own  rainbows,  dawn 
stars  and  evening  stars,  and  vast  incalculable 
fans  of  time  and  death.  And  this  I  have 
learned :  that  there  is  no  absolute  Truth,  no 
absolute  Beauty,  even  for  the  Soul.  It  may 
be  that  in  the  Divine  Forges  we  shall  be  so 
moulded  as  to  have  perfect  vision.  Mean- 
while only  that  Truth  is  deepest,  that  Beauty 
highest  which  is  seen,  not  by  the  Soul  only, 
or  by  the  Mind,  or  by  the  Body,  but  all  three 
as  one.  Let  each  be  perfect  in  kind  and  per- 
fect in  unity.  This  is  the  signal  meaning  of 
the  mystery.  It  is  so  inevitable  that  it  has  its 
blind  descent  to  fetich  as  well  as  its  divine 
ascension.  But  the  ignoble  use  does  not 
annul    the    noble    purport,    any    more    than 

89 


The  Divine  Adventure 

the  blindness  of  many  obscures  the  dream 
of  one. 

There  could  be  no  life  hereafter  for  the 
soul  were  it  not  for  the  body,  and  what  were 
that  life  without  the  mind,  the  child  of  both, 
whom  the  ancient  seers  knew  and  named 
Mnemosyne?  Without  memory  life  would 
be  a  void  breath,  immortality  a  vacuum. 

Ah,  the  glory  of  the  lifting  light!  The 
new  day  is  come.     Farewell. 


90 


lONA 


91 


"There  are  moments  when  the  soul  takes  wings: 
what  it  has  to  remember,  it  remembers :  what  it  loves, 
it  loves  still  more:  what  it  longs  for,  to  that  it  flies." 


92 


lona 


A  few  places  in  the  world  are  to  be  held 
holy,  because  of  the  love  which  consecrates 
them  and  the  faith  which  enshrines  them. 
Their  names  are  themselves  talismans  of 
spiritual  beauty.     Of  these  is  lona. 

The  Arabs  speak  of  Mecca  as  a  holy  place 
before  the  time  of  the  prophet,  saying  that 
Adam  himself  lies  buried  here :  and,  before 
Adam,  that  the  Sons  of  Allah,  who  are  called 
Angels,  worshipped ;  and  that  when  Allah 
Himself  stood  upon  perfected  Earth  it  was 
on  this  spot.  And  here,  they  add,  when  there 
is  no  man  left  upon  earth,  an  angel  shall 
gather  up  the  dust  of  this  world,  and  say  to 
Allah,  "  There  is  nothing  left  of  the  whole 
earth  but  Mecca:  and  now  Mecca  is  but  the 
few  grains  of  sand  that  I  hold  in  the  hollow 
of  my  palm,  O  Allah." 

In  spiritual  geography  lona  is  the  Mecca 
of  the  Gael. 

It  is  but  a  small  isle,  fashioned  of  a  little 
sand,  a  few  grasses  salt  with  the  spray  of  an 

93 


lona 

ever-restless  wave,  a  few  rocks  that  wade  in 
heather  and  upon  whose  brows  the  sea-wind 
weaves  the  yellow  lichen.  But  since  the 
remotest  days  sacrosanct  men  have  bowed 
here  in  worship.  In  this  little  island  a  lamp 
was  lit  whose  flame  lighted  pagan  Europe, 
from  the  Saxon  in  his  fens  to  the  swarthy 
folk  who  came  by  Greek  waters  to  trade 
the  Orient.  Here  Learning  and  Faith  had 
their  tranquil  home,  when  the  shadov^  of 
the  sword  lay  upon  all  lands,  from  Syra- 
cuse by  the  Tyrrhene  Sea  to  the  rainy  isles 
of  Orcc.  From  age  to  age,  lowly  hearts  have 
never  ceased  to  bring  their  burthen  here, 
lona  herself  has  given  us  for  remembrance  a 
fount  of  youth  more  wonderful  than  that 
which  lies  under  her  own  boulders  of  Diin-I. 
And  here  Hope  waits. 

To  tell  the  story  of  lona  is  to  go  back  to 
God,  and  to  end  in  God. 

But  to  write  of  lona,  there  are  many  ways 
of  approach.  No  place  that  has  a  spiritual 
history  can  be  revealed  to  those  who  know 
nothing  of  it  by  facts  and  descriptions.  The 
approach  may  be  through  the  obscure  glens 
of  another's  mind  and  so  out  by  the  moonlit 
way,  as  well  as  by  the  track  that  thousands 
travel.     I  have  nothing  to  say  of  lona's  acre- 

94 


lona 

age,  or  fisheries,  or  pastures :  nothing  of  how 
the  islanders  Hve.  These  things  are  the  ac- 
cidental. There  is  small  difference  in  simple 
life  anywhere.  Moreover,  there  are  many  to 
tell  all  that  need  be  known. 

There  is  one  lona,  a  httle  island  of  the 
west.  There  is  another  lona,  of  which  I 
would  speak.  I  do  not  say  that  it  lies  open 
to  all.  It  is  as  we  come  that  we  find.  If  we 
come,  bringing  nothing  with  us,  we  go  away 
ill-content,  having  seen  and  heard  nothing  of 
what  we  had  vaguely  expected  to  see  or  hear. 
It  is  another  lona  than  the  lona  of  sacred 
memories  and  prophecies :  lona  the  metro- 
polis of  dreams.  None  can  understand  it 
who  does  not  see  it  through  its  pagan  light, 
its  Christian  light,  its  singular  blending  of 
paganism  and  romance  and  spiritual  beauty. 
There  is,  too,  an  lona  that  is  more  than 
Gaelic,  that  is  more  than  a  place  rainbow-lit 
with  the  seven  desires  of  the  world,  the  lona 
that,  if  we  will  it  so,  is  a  mirror  of  your 
heart  and  of  mine. 

History  may  be  written  in  many  ways,  but 
I  think  that  in  days  to  come  the  method  of 
spiritual  history  will  be  found  more  sugges- 
tive than  the  method  of  statistical  history. 
The  one  will,  in  its  own  way,  reveal  inward 
life,    and    hidden    significance,    and    palpable 

95 


lona 

destiny:  as  the  other,  in  the  good  but  nar- 
row way  of  convention,  does  with  exactitude 
dehneate  features,  narrate  facts,  and  relate 
events.  The  true  interpreter  will  as  little 
despise  the  one  as  he  will  claim  all  for  the 
other. 

And  that  is  why  I  would  speak  here  of 
lona  as  befalls  my  pen,  rather  than  as  perhaps 
my  pen  should  go:  and  choose  legend  and  re- 
membrance, and  my  own  and  other  memo- 
ries and  associations,  and  knowledge  of  my 
own  and  others,  and  hidden  meanings,  and 
beauty  and  strangeness  surviving  in  dreams 
and  imaginations,  rather  than  facts  and  fig- 
ures, that  others  could  adduce  more  deftly 
and  with  more  will. 

In  the  Felire  na  Naomh  Nerennach  is  a 
strangely  beautiful  if  fantastic  legend  of  one 
Mochaoi,  Abbot  of  n'-Aondruim  in  Uladh. 
With  some  companions  he  was  at  the  edge 
of  a  wood,  and  while  busy  in  cutting  wattles 
wherewith  to  build  a  church,  "  he  heard  a 
bright  bird  singing  on  the  blackthorn  near 
him.  It  was  more  beautiful  than  the  birds 
of  the  world."  Mochaoi  listened  entranced. 
There  was  more  in  that  voice  than  in  the 
throat  of  any  bird  he  had  ever  heard,  so  he 
stopped  his  wattle-cutting,  and,  looking  at  the 
96 


lona 

bird,  courteously  asked  who  was  thus  de- 
Hghting  him.  The  bird  at  once  answered, 
"  A  man  of  the  people  of  my  Lord  "  (that  is, 
an  angel).  "Hail,"  said  Mochaoi,  "and  for 
why  that,  O  bird  that  is  an  angel  ?  "  "I  am 
come  here  by  command  to  encourage  you  in 
your  good  work,  but  also,  because  of  the  love 
in  your  heart,  to  amuse  you  for  a  time  with 
my  sweet  singing."  "  I  am  glad  of  that," 
said  the  saint.  Thereupon  the  bird  sang  a 
single  surpassing  sweet  air,  and  then  fixed  his 
beak  in  the  feathers  of  his  wing,  and  slept. 
But  Mochaoi  heard  the  beauty  and  sweetness 
and  infinite  range  of  that  song  for  three  hun- 
dred years.  Three  hundred  years  were  in 
that  angelic  song,  but  to  Mochaoi  it  was  less 
than  an  hour.  For  three  hundred  years  he 
remained  listening,  in  the  spell  of  beauty: 
nor  in  that  enchanted  hour  did  any  age  come 
upon  him,  or  any  withering  upon  the  wattles 
he  had  gathered;  nor  in  the  wood  itself  did  a 
single  leaf  turn  to  a  red  or  yellow  flame 
before  his  eyes.  Where  the  spider  spun  her 
web,  she  spun  no  more :  where  the  dove 
leaned  her  grey  breast  from  the  fir,  she  leaned 
still. 

Then  suddenly  the  bird  took  its  beak  from 
its  wing-feathers,  and  said  farewell.  When 
it  was  gone,  Mochaoi  lifted  his  wattles,  and 

97 


lona 

went  homeward  as  one  in  a  dream.  He  stared, 
when  he  looked  for  the  httle  wattled  cells  of 
the  Sons  of  Patrick.  A  great  church  built  of 
stone  stood  before  his  wondering  eyes.  A 
man  passed  him,  and  told  the  stranger  that  it 
was  the  church  of  St.  Mochaoi.  When  he 
spoke  to  the  assembled  brothers,  none  knew 
him:  some  thought  he  had  been  taken  away 
by  the  people  of  the  Shee,  and  come  back  at 
fairy-nightfall,  which  is  the  last  hour  of  the 
last  day  of  three  hundred  years.  "  Tell  us 
your  name  and  lineage,"  they  cried.  "  1  am 
Mochaoi,  Abbot  of  n'-Aondruim,"  he  said, 
and  then  he  told  his  tale,  and  they  knew  him, 
and  made  him  abbot  again.  In  the  enchanted 
wood  a  shrine  was  built,  and  about  it  a 
church  grew,  "  and  surpassingly  white  angels 
often  alighted  there,  or  sang  hymns  to  it 
from  the  branches  of  the  forest  trees,  or 
leaned  with  their  foot  on  tiptoe,  their  eyes 
on  the  horizon,  their  ear  on  the  ground,  their 
wings  flapping,  their  bodies  trembling,  wait- 
ing to  send  tidings  of  prayer  and  repentance 
with  a  beat  of  their  wings  to  the  King  of  the 
Everlasting." 

There  were  many  who  thought  that 
Mochaoi  was  dead,  when  he  was  seen  no 
more  of  his  fellow-monks  at  the  forest  mon- 
astery   of    n'Aondruim    in    Uladh.      But    his 

98 


lona 

chronicler  knew :  "  a  sleep  without  decay  of 
the  body  Mochaoi  of  Antrim  slept." 

I  am  reminded  of  the  story  of  Mochaoi 
when  I  think  of  lona.  I  think  she  too,  beau- 
tiful isle,  while  gathering  the  kelp  of  human 
longing  and  tears  and  hopes,  strewn  upon  her 
beaches  by  wild  waves  of  the  world,  stood, 
enchanted,  to  listen  to  a  Song  of  Beauty. 
"  That  is  a  new  voice  I  hear  in  the  wave," 
we  can  dream  of  her  saying,  and  of  the  an- 
swer :  "  we  are  the  angelical  flocks  of  the 
Shepherd :  we  are  the  Voices  of  the  Eternal  ; 
listen  a  while !  " 

It  has  been  a  long  sleep,  that  enchanted 
swoon.  But  Mochaoi  awoke,  after  three 
hundred  years,  and  there  was  neither  time 
upon  his  head,  nor  age  in  his  body,  nor  a  sin- 
gle withered  leaf  of  the  forest  at  his  feet. 
And  shall  not  that  be  possible  for  the  Isle  of 
Dreams,  whose  sands  are  the  dust  of  mar- 
tyrs and  noble  and  beautiful  lives,  which  was 
granted  to  one  man  by  "  one  of  the  people  of 
my  Lord?" 

When  I  think  of  lona  I  think  often,  too,  of 
a  prophecy  once  connected  with  lona ;  though 
perhaps  current  no  more  in  a  day  when  pro- 
phetical hopes  are  fallen  dumb  and  blind. 

It  is  commonly  said  that,  if  he  would  be 

99 


lona 

heard,  none  should  write  in  advance  of  his 
times.  That  I  do  not  believe.  Only,  it  does 
not  matter  how  few  listen.  I  believe  that 
we  are  close  upon  a  great  and  deep  spiritual 
change.  I  believe  a  new  redemption  is  even 
now  conceived  of  the  Divine  Spirit  in  the  hu- 
man heart,  that  is  itself  as  a  woman,  broken 
in  dreams  and  yet  sustained  in  faith,  patient, 
long-suffering,  looking  towards  home.  I  be- 
lieve that  though  the  Reign  of  Peace  may 
be  yet  a  long  way  off,  it  is  drawing  near :  and 
that  Who  shall  save  us  anew  shall  come  di- 
vinely as  a  Woman,  to  save  as  Christ  saved, 
but  not,  as  He  did,  to  bring  with  Her  a 
sword.  But  whether  this  Divine  Woman, 
this  Mary  of  so  many  passionate  hopes  and 
dreams,  is  to  come  through  mortal  birth,  or 
as  an  immortal  Breathing  upon  our  souls, 
none  can  yet  know. 

Sometimes  I  dream  of  the  old  prophecy 
that  Christ  shall  come  again  upon  lona,  and 
of  that  later  and  obscure  prophecy  which 
foretells,  now  as  the  Bride  of  Christ,  now  as 
the  Daughter  of  God,  now  as  the  Divine 
Spirit  embodied  through  mortal  birth  in  a 
Woman,  as  once  through  mortal  birth  in  a 
Man,  the  coming  of  a  new  Presence  and 
Power:  and  dream  that  this  may  be  upon 
lona,  so  that  the  little  Gaelic  island  may  be- 

lOO 


lona 

come  as  the  little  Syrian  Bethlehem.  But 
more  wise  it  is  to  dream,  not  of  hallowed 
ground,  but  of  the  hallowed  gardens  of  the 
soul  wherein  She  shall  appear  white  and  ra- 
diant. Or,  that  upon  the  hills,  where  we 
are  wandered,  the  Shepherdess  shall  call  us 
home. 

From  one  man  only,  on  lona  itself,  I  have 
heard  any  allusion  to  the  prophecy  as  to  the 
Saviour  who  shall  yet  come:  and  he  in  part 
was  obscure,  and  confused  the  advent  of 
Mary  into  the  spiritual  world  with  the  pos- 
sible coming  again  to  earth  of  Mary,  as  an- 
other Redeemer,  or  with  a  descending  of  the 
Divine  Womanhood  upon  the  human  heart  as 
an  universal  spirit  descending  upon  awaiting 
souls.  But  in  intimate  remembrance  I  recall 
the  words  and  faith  of  one  or  two  whom 
I  loved  well.  Nor  must  I  forget  that  my 
old  nurse,  Barabal,  used  to  sing  a  strange 
"  oran,"  to  the  effect  that  when  St.  Bride 
came  again  to  lona  it  would  be  to  bind  the 
hair  and  wash  the  feet  of  the  Bride  of 
Christ. 

One  of  those  to  whom  I  allude  was  a  young 
Hebridean  priest,  who  died  in  Venice,  after 
troubled  years,  whose  bitterest  vicissitude 
was  the  clouding  of  his  soul's  hope  by  the 
wings  of  a  strange  multitude  of  dreams — one 

lOI 


lofia 

of  whom  and  whose  end  I  have  elsewhere 
written :  and  he  told  me  once  how,  "  as  our 
forefathers  and  elders  believed  and  still  be- 
lieve, that  Holy  Spirit  shall  come  again  which 
once  was  mortally  born  among  us  as  the  Son 
of  God,  but,  then,  shall  be  the  Daughter  of 
God.  The  Divine  Spirit  shall  come  again  as 
a  Woman.  Then  for  the  first  time  the  world 
will  know  peace."  And  when  I  asked  him  if 
it  were  not  prophesied  that  the  Woman  is  to 
be  born  in  lona,  he  said  that  if  this  prophecy 
had  been  made  it  was  doubtless  of  an  lona 
that  was  symbolic,  but  that  this  was  a  matter 
of  no  moment,  for  She  would  rise  suddenly  in 
many  hearts,  and  have  her  habitation  among 
dreams  and  hopes.  The  other  who  spoke  to, 
me  of  this  Woman  who  is  to  save  was  an  old 
fisherman  of  a  remote  island  of  the  Hebrides, 
and  one  to  whom  I  owe  more  than  to  any 
other  spiritual  influence  in  my  childhood,  for 
it  was  he  who  opened  to  me  the  three  gates  of 
Beauty.  Once  this  old  man,  Seumas  Mac- 
leod,  took  me  with  him  to  a  lonely  haven  in 
the  rocks,  and  held  me  on  his  knee  as  we  sat 
watching  the  sun  sink  and  the  moon  climb  out 
of  the  eastern  wave.  I  saw  no  one,  but 
abruptly  he  rose  and  put  me  from  him,  and 
bowed  his  grey  head  as  he  knelt  before  one 
who  suddenly  was  standing  in  that  place.     I 

102 


lona 

asked  eagerly  who  it  was.  He  told  me  that  it 
was  an  Angel.  Later,  I  learned  (I  remem- 
ber my  disappointment  that  the  beautiful 
vision  was  not  winged  with  great  white 
wings)  that  the  Angel  was  one  soft  flame  of 
pure  white,  and  that  below  the  soles  of  his 
feet  were  curling  scarlet  flames.  He  had 
come  in  answer  to  the  old  man's  prayer.  He 
had  come  to  say  that  we  could  not  see  the  Di- 
vine One  whom  we  awaited.  "  But  you  will 
yet  see  that  Holy  Beauty,"  said  the  Angel,  and 
Seumas  believed,  and  I  too  believed,  and  be- 
lieve. He  took  my  hand,  and  I  knelt  be- 
side him,  and  he  bade  me  repeat  the  words 
he  said.  And  that  was  how  I  first  prayed 
to  Her  who  shall  yet  be  the  Balm  of  the 
World. 

And  since  then  I  have  learned,  and  do  see, 
that  not  only  prophecies  and  hopes,  and  de- 
sires unclothed  yet  in  word  or  thought,  fore- 
tell Her  coming,  but  already  a  multitude  of 
spirits  are  in  the  gardens  of  the  soul,  and 
are  sowing  seed  and  calling  upon  the  wind  of 
the  south ;  and  that  everywhere  are  watching 
eyes  and  uplifted  hands,  and  signs  which 
cannot  be  mistaken,  in  many  lands,  in  many 
peoples,  in  many  minds ;  and,  in  the  heaven 
itself  that  the  soul  sees,  the  surpassing  sig- 
nature. 

103 


lona 

I  recall  one  whom  I  knew,  a  fisherman  of 
the  little  green  island :  and  I  tell  this  story 
of  Coll  here,  for  it  is  to  me  more  than  the 
story  of  a  dreaming  islander.  One  night,  ly- 
ing upon  the  hillock  that  is  called  Cnoc-nan- 
Aingeal,  because  it  is  here  that  St.  Colum 
was  wont  to  hold  converse  with  an  angel 
out  of  heaven,  he  watched  the  moonlight 
move  like  a  slow  fin  through  the  sea :  and 
in  his  heart  were  desires  as  infinite  as  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  the  moving  homes  of  the 
dead. 

And  while  he  lay  and  dreamed,  his  thoughts 
idly  adrift  as  a  net  in  deep  waters,  he  closed 
his  eyes,  muttering  the  Gaelic  words  of  an 
old  line, 

In  the  Isle  of  Dreams  God  shall  yet  fulfil  Himself 
anew. 

Hearing  a  footfall,  he  stirred.  A  man  stood 
beside  him.  He  did  not  know  the  man,  who 
was  young,  and  had  eyes  dark  as  hill-tarns, 
with  hair  light  and  soft  as  thistledown ;  and 
moved  light  as  a  shadow,  delicately  treading 
the  grass  as  the  wind  treads  it.  In  his  hair 
he  had  twined  the  fantastic  leaf  of  the  horn- 
poppy. 

The  islander  did  not  move  or  speak :  it  was 
as  though  a  spell  were  upon  him. 
104 


lona 

"  God  be  with  you,"  he  said  at  last,  utter- 
ing the  common  salutation. 

''  And  with  you.  Coll  mac  Coll,"  answered 
the  stranger.  Coll  looked  at  him.  Who  was 
this  man,  with  the  sea-poppy  in  his  hair,  who, 
unknown,  knew  him  by  name  ?  He  had  heard 
of  one  whom  he  did  not  wish  to  meet,  the 
Green  Harper :  also  of  a  grey  man  of  the  sea 
whom  islesmen  seldom  alluded  to  by  name : 
again,  there  was  the  Amadan  Dhu  .  .  .  but  at 
that  name  Coll  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
remembering  what  Father  Allan  had  told  him 
in  South  Uist,  muttered  a  holy  exorcism  of 
the  Trinity. 

The  man  smiled. 

"  You  need  have  no  fear.  Coll  mac  Coll," 
he  said  quietly. 

"  You  that  know  my  name  so  well  are  wel- 
come, but  if  you  in  turn  would  tell  me  your 
name  I  should  be  glad." 

"  I  Have  no  name  that  I  can  tell  you,"  an- 
swered the  stranger  gravely ;  "  but  I  am  not 
of  those  who  are  unfriendly.  And  because 
you  can  see  me  and  speak  to  me,  I  will  help 
you  to  whatsoever  you  may  wish." 

Coll  laughed. 

"  Neither  you  nor  any  man  can  do  that. 
For  now  that  I  have  neither  father  nor 
mother,  nor  brother  nor  sister,  and  my  lass 

105 


lona 

too  is  dead,  I  wish  neither  for  sheep  nor  cat- 
tle, nor  for  new  nets  and  a  fine  boat,  nor  a 
big  house,  nor  as  much  money  as  MacCailein 
Mor  has  in  the  bank  at  Inveraora." 

"  What  then  do  you  wish  for,  Coll  mac 
Coll  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  for  what  cannot  be,  or  I 
would  wish  to  see  again  the  dear  face  of 
Morag,  my  lass.  But  I  wish  for  all  the  glory 
and  wonder  and  power  there  is  in  the  world, 
and  to  have  it  all  at  my  feet,  and  to  know 
everything  that  the  Holy  Father  himself 
knows,  and  have  kings  coming  to  me  as  the 
crofters  come  to  MacCailein  Mor's  factor." 

"  You  can  have  that.  Coll  mac  Coll,"  said 
the  Green  Harper,  and  he  waved  a  withe  of 
hazel  he  had  in  his  hand. 

"What  is  that  for?"  said  Coll. 

"  It  is  to  open  a  door  that  is  in  the  air.  And 
now.  Coll,  if  that  is  your  wish  of  all  wishes, 
and  you  will  give  up  all  other  wishes  for  that 
wish,  you  can  have  the  sovereignty  of  the 
world.  Ay,  and  more  than  that :  you  shall 
have  the  sun  like  a  golden  jewel  in  the  hol- 
low of  your  right  hand,  and  all  the  stars  as 
pearls  in  your  left,  and  have  the  moon  as  a 
white  shining  opal  above  your  brows,  with  all 
knowledge  behind  the  sun,  within  the  moon, 
and  beyond  the  stars." 
io6 


lona 

Coil's  face  shone.  He  stood,  waiting.  Just 
then  he  heard  a  familiar  sound  in  the  dusk. 
The  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Give  me  instead,"  he  cried,  "  give  me  a 
warm  breast-feather  from  that  grey  dove  of 
the  woods  that  is  winging  home  to  her 
young."  He  looked  as  one  moon-dazed.  None 
stood  beside  him.  He  was  alone.  Was  it  a 
dream,  he  wondered?  But  a  weight  was 
lifted  from  his  heart.  Peace  fell  upon  him  as 
dew  upon  grey  pastures.  Slowly  he  walked 
homeward.  Once,  glancing  back,  he  saw  a 
white  figure  upon  the  knoll,  with  a  face  noble 
and  beautiful.  Was  it  Colum  himself  come 
again?  he  mused:  or  that  white  angel  with 
whom  the  Saint  was  wont  to  discourse,  and 
who  brought  him  intimacies  of  God?  or  was 
it  but  the  wave-fire  of  his  dreaming  mind,  as 
lonely  and  cold  and  unreal  as  that  which  the 
wind  of  the  south  makes  upon  the  wandering 
hearths  of  the  sea? 

I  tell  this  story  of  Coll  here,  for,  as  I  have 
said,  it  is  to  me  more  than  the  story  of  a 
dreaming  islander.  He  stands  for  the  soul  of 
a  race.  It  is  because,  to  me,  he  stands  for 
the  sorrowful  genius  of  our  race,  that  I  have 
spoken  of  him  here.  Below  all  the  strife  of 
lesser  desires,  below  all  that  he  has  in  com- 
mon with  other  men,  he  has  the  livelong  un- 
107 


lona 

quenchable  thirst  for  the  things  of  the  spirit. 
This  is  the  thirst  that  makes  him  turn  so 
often  from  the  near  securities  and  prosperi- 
ties, and  indeed  all  beside,  setting  his  heart 
aflame  with  vain,  because  illimitable,  desires. 
For  him,  the  wisdom  before  which  know- 
ledge is  a  frosty  breath :  the  beauty  that  is  be- 
yond what  is  beautiful.  For,  like  Coll,  the 
world  itself  has  not  enough  to  give  him.  And 
at  the  last,  and  above  all,  he  is  like  Coll  in 
this,  that  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  them- 
selves may  become  as  trampled  dust,  for  only 
a  breast-feather  of  that  Dove  of  the  Eternal, 
which  may  have  its  birth  in  mortal  love,  but 
has  its  evening  home  where  are  the  dews  of 
immortality. 

"  The  Dove  of  the  Eternal."  It  was  from 
the  lips  of  an  old  priest  of  the  Hebrides  that  I 
first  heard  these  words.  I  was  a  child,  and 
asked  him  if  it  was  a  white  dove,  such 
as  I  had  seen  fanning  the  sunglow  in  Icolm- 
kill. 

"  Yes,"  he  told  me,  "  the  Dove  is  white,  and 
it  was  beloved  of  Colum,  and  is  of  you,  little 
one,  and  of  me." 

"Then  it  is  not  dead?" 

"  It  is  not  dead." 

I  was  in  a  more  wild  and  rocky  isle  than 
1 08 


lona 

lona  then,  and  when  I  went  into  a  sohtary 
place  close  by  my  home  it  was  to  a  stony  wil- 
derness so  desolate  that  in  many  moods  I 
could  not  bear  it.  But  that  day,  though  there 
were  no  sheep  lying  beside  boulders  as  grey 
and  still,  nor  whinnying  goats  (creatures 
that  have  always  seemed  to  me  strangely 
homeless,  so  that,  as  a  child,  it  was  often  my 
noon- fancy  on  hot  days  to  play  to  them  on  a 
little  reed-flute  I  was  skilled  in  making, 
thwarting  the  hill-wind  at  the  small  holes  to 
the  fashioning  of  a  rude  furtive  music,  which 
I  believed  comforted  the  goats,  though  why 
I  did  not  know,  and  probably  did  not  try  to 
know)  :  and  though  I  could  hear  nothing 
but  the  soft,  swift,  slipping  feet  of  the  wind 
among  the  rocks  and  grass  and  a  noise  of  the 
tide  crawling  up  from  a  shore  hidden  behind 
crags  (beloved  of  swallows  for  the  small 
honey-flies  which  fed  upon  the  thyme)  :  still, 
on  that  day,  I  was  not  ill  at  ease,  nor  in  any 
way  disquieted.  But  before  me  I  saw  a  white 
rock-dove,  and  followed  it  gladly.  It  flew  cir- 
cling among  the  crags,  and  once  I  thought  it 
had  passed  seaward ;  but  it  came  again,  and 
alit  on  a  boulder, 

I  went  upon  my  knees,  and  prayed  to  it, 
and,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  in  these 
words : — 

109 


lona 

"  O  Dove  of  the  Eternal,  I  want  to  love 
you,  and  you  to  love  me:  and  if  you  live  on 
lona,  I  want  you  to  show  me,  when  I  go 
there  again,  the  place  where  Colum  the  Holy 
talked  with  an  angel.  And  I  want  to  live  as 
long  as  you,  Dove"  (I  remember  thinking 
this  might  seem  disrespectful,  and  that  I 
added  hurriedly  and  apologetically),  "  Dove 
of  the  Eternal." 

That  evening  I  told  Father  Ivor  what  I  had 
done.  He  did  not  laugh  at  me.  He  took  me 
on  his  knee,  and  stroked  my  hair,  and  for  a 
long  time  was  so  silent  that  I  thought  he 
was  dreaming.  He  put  me  gently  from  him, 
and  kneeled  at  the  chair,  and  made  this  sim- 
ple prayer  which  I  have  never  forgotten :  "  O 
Dove  of  the  Eternal,  grant  the  little  one's 
prayer." 

That  is  a  long  while  ago  now,  and  I  have 
sojourned  since  in  lona,  and  there  and  else- 
where known  the  wild  doves  of  thought  and 
dream.  But  I  have  not,  though  I  have 
longed,  seen  again  the  White  Dove  that  Col- 
um so  loved.  For  long  I  thought  it  must  have 
left  lona  and  Barra  too,  when  Father  Ivor 
died. 

Yet  I  have  not  forgotten  that  it  is  not  dead. 
"  I  want  to  live  as  long  as  you,"  was  my 
child's  plea:  and  the  words  of  the  old  priest, 
no 


lona 

knowing  and  believing  were,  "  O  Dove  of  the 
Eternal,  grant  the  little  one's  prayer." 

It  was  not  in  Barra,  but  in  lona,  that,  while 
yet  a  child,  I  set  out  one  evening  to  find  the 
Divine  Forges.  A  Gaelic  sermon,  preached 
on  the  shoreside  by  an  earnest  man,  who,  go- 
ing poor  and  homeless  through  the  west,  had 
tramped  the  long  roads  of  Mull  overagainst 
us,  and  there  fed  to  flame  a  smouldering  fire, 
had  been  my  ministrant  in  these  words.  The 
"  revivalist  "  had  spoken  of  God  as  one  who 
would  hammer  the  evil  out  of  the  soul  and 
weld  it  to  good,  as  a  blacksmith  at  his  anvil : 
and  suddenly,  with  a  dramatic  gesture,  he 
cried :  "  This  little  island  of  lona  is  this  anvil ; 
God  is  your  blacksmith:  but  oh,  poor  people, 
who  among  you  knows  the  narrow  way  to 
the  Divine  Forges  ?  " 

There  is  a  spot  on  lona  that  has  always 
had  a  strange  enchantment  for  me.  Behind 
the  ruined  walls  of  the  Columban  church, 
the  slopes  rise,  and  the  one  isolated  hill  of 
lona  is,  there,  a  steep  and  sudden  wilderness. 
It  is  commonly  called  Dun-I  (JDoon-ee),  for  at 
the  summit  in  old  days  was  an  island  for- 
tress; but  the  Gaelic  name  of  the  whole  of 
this  uplifted  shoulder  of  the  isle  is  Slibh 
Meanach.     Hidden    under   a    wave   of   heath 

III 


lona 

and  boulder,  near  the  broken  rocks,  is  a  little 
pool.  From  generation  to  generation  this 
has  been  known,  and  frequented,  as  the 
Fountain  of  Youth. 

There,  through  boggy  pastures,  where  the 
huge-horned  shaggy  cattle  stared  at  me,  and 
up  through  the  ling  and  roitch,  I  climbed: 
for,  if  anywhere,  I  thought  that  from  there 
I  might  see  the  Divine  Forges,  or  at  least 
might  discover  a  hidden  way,  because  of  the 
power  of  that  water,  touched  on  the  eyelids  at 
sunlift,  at  sunset,  or  at  the  rising  of  the  m-oon. 

From  where  I  stood  I  could  see  the  people 
still  gathered  upon  the  dunes  by  the  shore, 
and  the  tall,  ungainly  figure  of  the  preacher. 
In  the  narrow  strait  were  two  boats,  one  be- 
ing rowed  across  to  Fionnaphort,  and  the 
other,  with  a  dun  sail  burning  flame-brown, 
hanging  like  a  bird's  wing  against  Glas 
Eilean,  on  the  tideway  to  the  promontory  of 
Earraid.  Was  the  preacher  still  talking  of 
the  Divine  Forges?  I  wondered;  or  were 
the  men  and  women  in  the  ferry  hurrying 
across  to  the  Ross  of  Mull  to  look  for  them 
among  the  inland  hills?  And  the  Earraid 
men  in  the  fishing-smack:  were  they  sailing 
to  see  if  they  lay  hidden  in  the  wilderness  of 
rocks,  where  the  muffled  barking  of  the  seals 
made  the  loneliness  more  wild  and  remote? 

112 


lona 

I  wetted  my  eyelids,  as  I  had  so  often 
done  before  (and  not  always  vainly,  though 
whether  vision  came  from  the  water,  or  from 
a  more  quenchless  spring  within,  I  know 
not),  and  looked  into  the  little  pool.  Alas! 
I  could  see  nothing  but  the  reflection  of  a 
star,  too  obscured  by  light  as  yet  for  me  to 
see  in  the  sky,  and,  for  a  moment,  the  shadow 
of  a  gull's  wing  as  the  bird  flew  by  far  over- 
head. I  was  too  young  then  to  be  content 
with  the  symbols  of  coincidence,  or  I  might 
have  thought  that  the  shadow  of  a  wing  from 
Heaven,  and  the  light  of  a  star  out  of  the 
East,  were  enough  indication.  But,  as  it 
was,  I  turned,  and  walked  idly  northward, 
down  the  rough  side  of  Dun  Bhuirg  (at  Cul 
Bhuirg,  a  furlong  westward,  I  had  once  seen 
a  phantom,  which  I  believed  to  be  that  of 
the  Culdee,  Oran,  and  so  never  went  that 
way  again  after  sundown)  to  a  thyme-covered 
mound  that  had  for  me  a  most  singular  fas- 
cination. 

It  is  a  place  to  this  day  called  Diin  Man- 
anain.  Here,  a  friend  who  told  me  many 
things,  a  Gaelic  farmer  named  Macarthur, 
had  related  once  a  fantastic  legend  about  a 
god  of  the  sea.  Manaun  was  his  name,  and 
he  lived  in  the  times  when  lona  was  part  of 
the  kingdom  of  the  Suderoer.     Whenever  he 

113 


lona 

willed  he  was  like  the  sea,  and  that  is  not 
wonderful,  for  he  was  born  of  the  sea.  Thus 
his  body  was  made  of  a  green  wave.  His 
hair  was  of  wrack  and  tangle,  glistening  with 
spray ;  his  robe  was  of  windy  foam ;  his  feet, 
of  white  sand.  That  is,  when  he  was  with 
his  own,  or  when  he  willed;  otherwise,  he 
was  as  men  are.  He  loved  a  woman  of  the 
south  so  beautiful  that  she  was  named  Dear- 
sadh-na-Ghreine  (Sunshine).  He  captured 
her  and  brought  her  to  lona  in  September, 
when  it  is  the  month  of  peace.  For  one 
month  she  was  happy:  when  the  wet  gales 
from  the  west  set  in,  she  pined  for  her  own 
land :  yet  in  the  dream-days  of  November, 
she  smiled  so  often  that  Manaun  hoped;  but 
when  Winter  was  come,  her  lover  saw  that 
she  could  not  live.  So  he  changed  her  into 
a  seal.  "  You  shall  be  a  sleeping  woman  by 
day,"  he  said,  "  and  sleep  in  my  diin  here  on 
lona:  and  by  night,  when  the  dews  fall,  you 
shall  be  a  seal,  and  shall  hear  me  calling  to 
you  from  a  wave,  and  shall  come  out  and 
meet  me." 

They  have  mortal  offspring  also,  it  is 
said. 

There  is  a  story  of  a  man  who  went  to  the 
mainland,  but  could  not  see  to  plough,  be- 
cause the  brown  fallows  became  waves  that 
114 


lona 

splashed  noisily  about  him.  The  same  man 
went  to  Canada,  and  got  work  in  a  great 
warehouse;  but  among  the  bales  of  merchan- 
dise he  heard  the  singular  note  of  the  sand- 
piper, and  every  hour  the  sea-fowl  confused 
him  with  their  crying. 

Probably  some  thought  was  in  my  mind 
that  there,  by  Dun  Mananain,  I  might  find 
a  hidden  way.  That  summer  I  had  been 
thrilled  to  the  inmost  life  by  coming  sud- 
denly, by  moonlight,  on  a  seal  moving  across 
the  last  sand-dune  between  this  place  and  the 
bay  called  Port  Ban.  A  strange  voice,  too,  I 
heard  upon  the  sea.  True,  I  saw  no  white 
arms  upthrown,  as  the  seal  plunged  into  the 
long  wave  that  swept  the  shore;  and  it  was 
a  grey  skua  that  wailed  above  me,  winging 
inland;  yet  had  I  not  had  a  vision  of  the 
miracle? 

But  alas!  that  evening  there  was  not  even 
a  barking  seal.  Some  sheep  fed  upon  the 
green  slope  of  Manaun's  mound. 

So,  still  seeking  a  way  to  the  Divine 
Forges,  I  skirted  the  shore  and  crossed  the 
sandy  plain  of  the  Machar,  and  mounted  the 
upland  district  known  as  Sliav  Starr  (the  Hill 
of  Noises),  and  walked  to  a  place,  to  me 
sacred.     This   was    a   deserted    green    airidh 

115 


lona 

between  great  rocks.  From  here  I  could 
look  across  the  extreme  western  part  of 
lona,  to  where  it  shelved  precipitously  around 
the  little  Port-a-churaich,  the  Haven  of  the 
Coracle,  the  spot  where  St.  Columba  landed 
when  he  came  to  the  island. 

I  knew  every  foot  of  ground  here,  as  ev- 
ery cave  along  the  wave-worn  shore.  How 
often  I  had  wandered  in  theSe  solitudes,  to 
see  the  great  spout  of  water  rise  through  the 
grass  from  the  caverns  beneath,  forced  up- 
ward when  tide  and  wind  harried  the  sea- 
flocks  from  the  north  ;  or  to  look  across  the 
ocean  to  the  cliflfs  of  Antrim,  from  the  Carn 
cul  Ri  Eirinn,  the  Cairn  of  the  Hermit  King 
of  Ireland,  about  whom  I  had  woven  many  a 
romance. 

I  was  tired,  and  fell  asleep.  Perhaps  the 
Druid  of  a  neighbouring  mound,  or  the 
lonely  Irish  King,  or  Colum  himself  (whose 
own  Mound  of  the  Outlook  was  near),  or  one 
of  his  angels  who  ministered  to  him,  watched, 
and  shepherded  my  dreams  to  the  desired 
fold.     At  least  I  dreamed,  and  thus: — 

The  skies  to  the  west  beyond  the  seas  were 
not  built  of  flushed  clouds,  but  of  transparent 
flame.  These  flames  rose  in  solemn  stillness 
above  a  vast  forge,  whose  anvil  was  the  shin- 
ing breast  of  the  sea.  Three  great  Spirits 
Ii6 


lona 

stood  by  it,  and  one  lifted  a  soul  out  of  the 
deep  shadow  that  was  below;  and  one  with 
his  hands  forged  the  soul  of  its  dross  and 
welded  it  anew;  and  the  third  breathed  upon 
it,  so  that  it  was  winged  and  beautiful. 
Suddenly  the  glory-cloud  waned,  and  I  saw 
the  multitude  of  the  stars.  Each  star  was 
the  gate  of  a  long,  shining  road.  Many — 
a  countless  number — travelled  these  roads. 
Far  ofY  I  saw  white  walls,  built  of  the  pale 
gold  and  ivory  of  sunrise.  There  again  I 
saw  the  three  Spirits,  standing  and  waiting. 
So  these,  I  thought,  were  not  the  walls  of 
Heaven,  but  the  Divine  Forges. 

That  was  my  dream.  When  I  awaked,  the 
curlews  were  crying  under  the  stars. 

When  I  reached  the  shadowy  glebe,  behind 
the  manse  by  the  sea,  I  saw  the  preacher 
walking  there  by  himself,  and  doubtless 
praying.  I  told  him  I  had  seen  the  Divine 
Forges,  and  twice;  and  in  crude,  childish 
words  told  how  I  had  seen  them. 

"  It  is  not  a  dream,"  he  said. 

I  know  now  what  he  meant. 

It  would  seem  to  be  difficult  for  most  of 

us  to  beHeve  that  what  has  perished  can  be 

reborn.     It    is    the    same    whether   we    look 

upon    the    dust    of    ancient    cities,    broken 

117 


lona 

peoples,  nations  that  stand  and  wait,  old 
faiths,  defeated  dreams.  It  is  so  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  what  has  fallen  may  arise.  Yet  we 
have  perpetual  symbols;  the  tree,  that  the 
winds  of  Autumn  ravage  and  the  Spring  re- 
stores; the  trodden  weed,  that  in  April 
awakes  white  and  fragrant;  the  swallow,  that 
in  the  south  remembers  the  north.  We 
forget  the  ebbing  wave  that  from  the  sea- 
depths  comes  again :  the  Day,  shod  with 
sunrise  while  his  head  is  crowned  with 
stars. 

Far-seeing  was  the  vision  of  the  old  Gael, 
who  prophesied  that  lona  would  never 
wholly  cease  to  be  "  the  lamp  of  faith,"  but 
would  in  the  end  shine  forth  as  gloriously  as 
of  yore,  and  that,  after  dark  days,  a  new  hope 
would  go  hence  into  the  world.  But  before 
that  (and  he  prophesied  when  the  island  was 
in  its  greatness) — 

"Man  tig  so  gu  crich 
Bithidh  I  mar  a  bha, 
Gun  a  ghuth  mannaich 
Findh  shalchar  ba  .   .   ." 

quaint  old-world  Erse  words,  which  mean — 

"Before  this  happens, 
lona  will  be  as  it  was, 

ii8 


lona 

Without  the  voice  of  a  monk, 
Under  the  dung  of  cows."  ' 

And  truly  enough  the  Httle  island  was  for 
long  given  over  to  the  sea-wind,  whose 
mournful  chant  even  now  fills  the  ruins 
where  once  the  monks  sang  matins  and  even- 
song; for  generations,  sheep  and  long-horned 
shaggy  kine  found  their  silent  pastures  in 
the  wilderness  that  of  old  was  "  this  our  little 
seabounded  Garden  of  Eden." 

But  now  that  Zona  has  been  "  as  it  was," 
the  other  and  greater  change  may  yet  be, 
may  well  have  already  come. 

Strange,  that  to  this  day  none  knows  with 
surety  the  derivation  or  original  significance 
of  the  name  lona.  Many  ingenious  guesses 
have  been  made,  but  of  these  some  are  ob- 
viously far-fetched,  others  are  impossible  in 

^  A  more  polished  later  version,  though  attributed 
to  Columba,  runs: — 

"An  I  mo  chridhe,  I  mo  ghr^idh 
An  aite  guth  mhanach  bidh  geum  ba; 
Ach  mu'n  tig  an  saoghal  gu  crich, 
Bithidh  I  mar  a  bha." 

(In  efifect:  In  lona  that  is  my  heart's  desire,  lona 
that  is  my  love,  the  lowing  of  cows  shall  yet  replace  the 
voices  of  monks:  but  before  the  end  is  come  lona  shall 
again  be  as  it  was.) 

119 


lona 

Gaelic,  and  all  but  impossible  to  the  mind 
of  any  Gael  speaking  his  ancient  tongue. 
Nearly  all  these  guesses  concern  the  lona  of 
Columba:  few  attempt  the  name  of  the  sacred 
island  of  the  Druids.  Another  people  once 
lived  here  with  a  forgotten  faith;  possibly  be- 
fore the  Picts  there  was  yet  another,  who 
worshipped  at  strange  altars  and  bowed  down 
before  Shadow  and  Fear,  the  earliest  of  the 
gods. 

The  most  improbable  derivation  is  one  that 
finds  much  acceptance.  When  Columba  and 
his  few  followers  were  sailing  northward  from 
the  isle  of  Oronsay,  in  quest,  it  is  said,  of 
this  sacred  island  of  the  Druids,  suddenly  one 
of  the  monks  cried  sud  i  (f  siod  e!)  "yon- 
der it!"  With  sudden  exultation  Columba 
exclaimed,  Mar  sud  bitJie  I,  goir  thcar  II, 
"  Be  it  so,  and  let  it  be  called  I  "  fl  or  EE). 
We  are  not  the  wiser  for  this  obviously 
monkish  invention.  It  accounts  for  a  sylla- 
ble only,  and  seems  like  an  efifort  to  explain 
the  use'  of  /  (II,  Y,  Hy,  Hee)  for  "island" 
in  place  of  the  vernacular  Innis,  Inch,  Eilean, 
etc.  Except  in  connection  with  lona  I  doubt 
if  /  for  island  is  ever  now  used  in  modern 
Gaelic.  Icolmkill  is  familiar:  the  anglicised 
Gaelic  of  the  Isle  of  Colum  of  the  Church. 
But  it  is  doubtful  if  any  now  living  has  ever 

120 


lona 

heard  a  Gael  speak  of  an  island  as  /;  T  doubt 
if  an  instance  could  be  adduced.  On  the 
other  hand,  /  might  well  have  been,  and 
doubtless  is,  used  in  written  speech  as  a  sign 
for  Innis,  as  's  is  the  common  writing  of 
agus,  and.  As  for  the  ancient  word  Idh  or 
Iy,'^do  not  know  that  its  derivation  has  been 
ascertained,  though  certain  Gaelic  linguists 
claim  that  Idh  and  Innis  are  of  the  same  root. 
I  do  not  know  on  what  authority,  but  an 
anonymous  Gaelic  writer,  in  an  account  of 
lona  in  1771,  alludes  to  the  probability  that 
Christianity  was  introduced  there  before  St. 
Columba's  advent,  and  that  the  island  was 
already  dedicated  to  the  Apostle  St.  John, 
"  for  it  was  originally  called  I'Eoin,  i.e.  the 
Isle  of  John,  whence  lona."  I'eoin  certainly 
is  very  close  in  sound,  as  a  Gael  would  pro- 
nounce it,  to  lona,  and  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  the  island  had  druids  (whether 
Christian  monks  also  with  or  without)  when 
Columba  landed.  Before  Conall,  King  of 
Alba  (as  he  was  called,  though  only  Dalriadic 
King  of  Argyll),  invited  Colum  to  lona,  to 
make  that  island  his  home  and  sanctuary, 
there  were  certainly  Christian  monks  on  the 
island.  Among  them  was  the  half-mythical 
Odran  or  Oran,  who  is  chronicled  in  the 
Annals  of  the  Four  Masters  as  having  been 
121 


lona 

a  missionary  priest,  and  as  having  died  in 
lona  fifteen  years  before  Colum  landed. 
Equally  certainly  there  were  druids  at  this  late 
date,  though  discredited  of  the  Pictish  king 
and  his  people,  for  a  Cymric  priest  of  the  old 
faith  was  at  that  time  Ard-Druid.  This  man 
Gwendollen,  through  his  bard  or  second- 
druid  Myrddin  (Merlin),  deplored  the  perse- 
cution to  which  he  was  subject,  in  that  now 
he  and  his  no  longer  dared  to  practise  the 
sacred  druidical  rites  "  in  raised  circles  " — 
adding  bitterly,  "  the  grey  stones  themselves, 
even,  they  have  removed." 

Again,  Davies  in  his  Celtic  Researches 
speaks  of  Colum  as  having  on  his  settlement 
in  lona  burnt  a  heap  of  druidical  books.  It 
is  at  any  rate  certain  that  druidical  believers 
(helots  perhaps)  remained  to  Colum's  time, 
even  if  the  last  druidic  priest  had  left.  In 
the  explicit  accounts  which  survive  there  is 
no  word  of  any  dispossession  of  the  druidic 
priests.  It  is  more  than  likely  that  the  Pic- 
tish king,  who  had  been  converted  to  Chris- 
tianity, and  gave  the  island  to  Columba  by 
special  grant,  had  either  already  seen  Irish 
monks  inhabit  it,  or  at  least  had  withdrawn 
the  lingering  priests  of  the  ancient  faith  of 
his  people.  Neither  Columba  nor  Adamnan 
nor  any  other  early  chronicler  speaks  of  lona 

122 


lona 

as  held  by  the  Druids  when  the  Httle  coracle 
with  the  cross  came  into  Port-a-Churaich. 

Others  have  derived  the  name  from  Aon, 
an  isthmus,  but  the  objections  to  this  are 
that  it  is  not  applicable  to  the  island,  and  per- 
haps never  was;  and,  again,  the  Gaelic  pro- 
nunciation. Some  have  thought  that  the 
word,  when  given  as  I-Eoin,  was  intended, 
not  for  the  Isle  of  John,  but  the  Isle  of 
Birds.  Here,  again,  the  objection  is  that 
there  is  no  reason  why  lona  should  be  called 
by  a  designation  equally  applicable  to  every 
one  of  the  numberless  isles  of  the  west.  To 
the  mountaineers  of  Mull,  however,  the  little 
low-lying  seaward  isle  must  have  appeared 
the  haunt  of  the  myriad  sea-fowl  of  the 
Moyle;  and  if  the  name  thus  derives,  doubt- 
less a  Mull  man  gave  it. 

Again,  it  is  said  that  lona  is  a  miswriting  of 
loua,  "  the  avowed  ancient  name  of  the  is- 
land." It  is  easy  to  see  how  the  scribes  who 
copied  older  manuscripts  might  have  made 
the  mistake;  and  easy  to  understand  how, 
the  mistake  once  become  the  habit,  fanciful 
interpretations  were  adduced  to  explain 
"  lona." 

There  is  little  reasonable  doubt  that  lona 
was  the  ancient  Gaelic  or  Pictish  name  of  the 
island.  I  have  frequently  seen  allusions  to 
123 


lona 

its  having  been  called  Innis  nan  Dhruid- 
nechean,  or  Dhruidhnean,  the  Isle  of  the 
Druids:  but  that  is  not  ancient  Gaelic,  and  I 
do  not  think  there  is  any  record  of  lona  be- 
ing so  called  in  any  of  the  early  manuscripts. 
Doubtless  it  was  a  name  given  by  the  Shena- 
chies  or  bardic  story-tellers  of  a  later  date, 
though  of  course  it  is  quite  possible  that 
lona  was  of  old  commonly  called  the  Isle  of 
the  Druids.  In  this  connection  I  may  put 
on  record  that  a  few  years  ago  I  heard  an 
old  man  of  the  western  part  of  the  Long  Is- 
land (Lewis),  speak  of  the  priests  and  minis- 
ters of  to-day  as  "druids";  and  once,  in 
either  Coll  or  Tiree,  I  heard  a  man  say,  in 
English,  alluding  to  the  Established  minister, 
"  Yes,  yes,  that  will  be  the  way  of  it,  for  sure, 

for  Mr. is  a  wise  druid."     It  might  well 

be,  therefore,  that  in  modern  use  the  Isle  of 
Druids  signified  only  the  Isle  of  Priests. 
There  is  a  little  island  of  the  Outer  Hebrides 
called  Innis  Chailleachan  Dhubh — the  isle  of 
the  black  old  women ;  and  a  legend  has 
grown  up  that  witches  once  dwelt  here  and 
brewed  storms  and  evil  spells.  But  the 
name  is  not  an  ancient  name,  and  was  given 
not  so  long  ago,  because  of  a  small  sister- 
hood of  black-cowled  nuns  who  settled  there. 
St.  Adamnan,  ninth  Abbot  of  lona,  writing 
124 


lona 

at  the  end  of  the  seventh  century,  invari- 
ably calls  the  island  loita  or  the  loiian 
Island.  Unless  the  hypothesis  of  the  careless 
scribes  be  accepted,  this  should  be  conclu- 
sive. 

For  myself  I  do  not  believe  that  there  has 
been  any  slip  of  n  for  u.  And  I  am  con- 
firmed in  this  opinion  by  the  following  cir- 
cumstance. Three  years  ago  I  was  sailing 
on  one  of  the  sea-lochs  of  Argyll.  My  only 
companion  was  the  boatman,  and  incidentally 
I  happened  to  speak  of  some  skerries  (a 
group  of  sea-set  rocks)  off  the  Ross  of  Mull, 
similarly  named  to  rocks  in  the  narrow  kyle 
we  were  then  passing;  and  learned  with  sur- 
prise that  my  companion  knew  them  well, 
and  was  not  only  an  lona  man,  but  had  lived 
on  the  island  till  he  was  twenty.  I  asked  him 
about  his  people,  and  when  he  found  that  I 
knew  them  he  became  more  confidential. 
But  he  professed  a  strange  ignorance  of  all 
concerning  lona.  There  was  an  old  lona 
iorram,  or  boat-song,  I  was  anxious  to  have: 
he  had  never  heard  of  it.  Still  more  did  I 
desire  some  rendering  or  even  some  lines  of 
an  ancient  chant  of  whose  existence  I  knew, 
but  had  never  heard  recited,  even  fragmen- 
tarily.  He  did  not  know  of  it :  he  "  did  not 
know  Gaelic,"  that  is,  he  remembered  only  a 
125 


lona 

little  of  it.  Well,  no,  he  added,  perhaps  he 
did  remember  some,  "  but  only  just  to  talk 
to  fishermen  an'  the  like." 

Suddenly  a  squall  came  down  out  of  the 
hills.  The  loch  blackened.  In  a  moment  a 
froth  of  angry  foam  drove  in  upon  us,  but 
the  boat  righted,  and  we  flew  before  the  blast, 
as  though  an  arrow  shot  by  the  wind.  I 
noticed  a  startling  change  in  my  companion. 
His  blue  eyes  were  wide  and  luminous;  his 
lips  twitched;  his  hands  trembled.  Suddenly 
he  stooped  slightly,  laughed,  cried  some 
words  I  did  not  catch,  and  abruptly  broke 
into  a  fierce  and  strange  sea-chant.  It  was 
no  other  than  the  old  lona  rann  I  had  so 
vainly  sought! 

Some  memory  had  awakened  in  the  man, 
perhaps  in  part  from  what  I  had  said — with 
the  old  spell  of  the  sea,  the  old  cry  of  the 
wind. 

Then  he  ceased  abruptly,  he  relapsed,  and 
with  a  sheepish  exclamation  and  awkward 
movement  shrank  beside  me.  Alas,  I  could 
recall  only  a  few  lines;  and  I  failed  in  every 
effort  to  persuade  him  to  repeat  the  rann. 
But  I  had  heard  enough  to  excite  me,  for 
again  and  again  he  had  called  or  alluded  to 
lona  by  its  ancient  pre-Columban  name  of 
loua,  and  once  at  least  I  was  sure,  from  the 
126 


lona 

words,  that  the  chant  was  also  to  loua  the 
Moon. 

That  night,  however,  he  promised  to  tell 
me  on  the  morrow  all  he  could  remember  of 
the  old  loua  chant.  On  the  morrow,  alas,  he 
had  to  leave  upon  an  unexpected  business 
that  could  not  be  postponed,  and  before  his 
return,  three  days  later,  I  was  gone.  I  have 
not  seen  him  again,  but  it  is  to  him  I  am  in- 
debted for  the  loan  of  an  ancient  manuscript 
map  of  lona,  a  copy  of  which  I  made  and 
have  by  me  still.  It  was  an  heirloom:  by  his 
own  account  had  been  in  his  family,  in  lona, 
for  seven  generations,  "  an  it's  Himself 
knows  how  much  more."  He  had  been  to 
the  island  the  summer  before,  because  of  his 
father's  death,  and  had  brought  this  coarsely 
painted  and  rudely  framed  map  away  with 
him.  He  told  me  too,  that  night,  how  the 
oldest  folk  on  the  island — "  some  three  or 
four  o'  them,  anyway;  them  as  has  the 
Gaelic" — had  the  old  loua  chant  in  their 
minds.  As  a  boy  he  had  heard  it  at  many 
a  winter  ceilidh.  "  Ay,  ay,  for  sure,  lona 
was  called  loua  in  them  old  ancient  days." 

My   friend   also   had   a    little    book   of   his 

mother's    which    contained,  in    a   neat   hand, 

copies  of  Gaelic  songs,  among  them  some  of 

the    old    Islay   and    Skye    oar-chants    of    the 

127 


lona 

iorram  kind.  I  recall  an  iorram  that  had 
hardly  a  word  in  it,  but  was  only  a  series 
of  barbaric  cries,  sometimes  full  of  lament 
{ho-ro-aroo-arbnc,  ho-ro,  ah-hbnc,  ah-hdne!), 
which  was  the  lona  fisherman's  song  to  en- 
tice seals  to  come  near.  I  remember,  too, 
the  opening  of  a  "  maighdean-mhara  "  or  mer- 
maid song,  by  a  little-known  namesake  of  my 
own,  a  sister  of  Mary  Macleod,  "  the  sweet 
singer  of  the  Hebrides,"  because  it  had  as  a 
heading  (perhaps  put  there  by  the  lona 
scribe)  some  lines  of  Mary's  that  I  liked  well. 
I  quote  from  memory,  but  these  were  to 
the  efifect  that,  in  his  home,  what  the  Macleod 
loved,  was  playing  at  chess 

Agus  jiiaint  air  a  chlarsaich 
Gus  e  h' eachdraidli  na  dheigh  sin 
Greis  air  ursgeul  na  Peine 

[and  the  music  of  the  harp,  and  the  telling  of 
tales  of  the  feats  of  the  Feinn  (the  Fingal- 
ians).]  There  are  not  many  now,  I  fear,  who 
could  find  entertainment  thus,  or  care  to  sit 
before  the  peat-fires. 

On  one  other  occasion  I  have  heard  the 

name  loua  used  by  a  fisherman.     I  was  at 

Strachur,  on  Loch  Fyne,  and  was  speaking  to 

the  skipper  of  a  boat's  crew  of  Macleods  from 

128 


lona 

the  Lews,  when  I  was  attracted  by  an  old 
man.  He  knew  my  Uist  friend,  then  at 
Strachur,  who  told  me  more  than  one  strange 
legend  of  the  Sliochd-nan-Ron,  the  seal-men, 
I  met  the  old  man  that  night  before  the  peat- 
glow,  and  while  he  was  narrating  a  story  of 
a  Princess  of  Spain  who  married  the  King  of 
Ireland's  son,  he  spoke  incidentally  of  their 
being  wrecked  on  lona,  "  that  was  then  called 
loua,  ay,  an'  that  for  one  hundred  and  two 
hundred  and  three  hundred  years  and  thrice 
a  hundred  on  the  top  o'  that  before  it  was 
Icolmkill." 

I  did  not  know  him,  but  a  friend  told  me 
that  the  late  Mr.  Cameron,  the  minister  of 
Brodick,  in  Arran,  had  the  m.s.  of  an  old  lona 
(or  Hebridean)  iorram,  in  the  refrain  of  which 
loua  was  used  throughout. 

Neither  do  I  think  the  name  the  island  now 
bears  has  anything  in  common  with  loua. 
In  a  word,  I  am  sure  that  the  derivations  of 
lona  are  commonly  fanciful,  and  that  the 
word  is  simply  Gaelic  for  the  Isle  of  Saints, 
and  was  so  given  it  because  of  Columba  and 
the  abbots  and  monks  who  succeeded  him 
and  his.  In  Gaelic,  the  letters  sh  at  the  be- 
ginning of  a  word  are  invariably  mute;  so 
that  I-shona,  the  Isle  of  Saints,  would  be 
pronounced  lona.     I  think  that  any  lingering 

129 


lona 

doubt  I  had  about  the  meaning  of  the  name 
went  when  I  got  tlie  old  map  of  which  I  have 
spoken,  and  found  that  in  the  left  corner  was 
written  in  large  rude  letters  II-SHONA. 

How  great  a  man  was  the  Irish  monk 
Crimthan,  called  Colum,  the  Dove:  Colum- 
cille,  the  Dove  of  the  Church.  One  may  read 
all  that  has  been  written  of  him  since  the 
sixth  century,  and  not  reach  the  depths  of  his 
nature.  I  doubt  if  any  other  than  a  Gael  can 
understand  him  aright.  More  than  any  Celt 
of  whom  history  tells,  he  is  the  epitome  of 
the  Celt.  In  war,  Cuchullin  himself  was  not 
more  brave  and  resourceful.  Finn,  calling 
his  champions  to  the  pursuit  of  Crania,  or 
Oisin  boasting  of  the  Fianna  before  Patrick, 
was  not  more  arrogant,  yet  his  tenderness 
could  be  as  his  Master's  was,  and  he  could 
be  as  gentle  as  a  young  mother  with  her 
child,  and  had  a  child's  simplicity.  He  knew 
the  continual  restlessness  of  his  race.  He 
was  forty-two  when  he  settled  in  lona,  and 
had  led  a  life  of  frequent  and  severe  vicissi- 
tude, often  a  wanderer,  sometimes  with  blood 
against  him  and  upon  his  head,  once  in  ex- 
tremity of  danger,  an  outlaw,  excommuni- 
cated. But  even  in  his  haven  of  lona  he 
was  not  content.  He  journeyed  northward 
130 


lona 

through  the  Pictish  realms,  a  more  danger- 
ous and  obscure  adventure  then  than  to  cross 
Africa  to-day.  He  sailed  to  "  the  Ethican 
island,"  as  St.  Adamnan  calls  Tiree,  and  made 
of  it  a  sanctuary,  where  prayer  might  rise  as 
a  continual  smoke  from  quiet  homes.  No  fear 
of  the  savage  clans  of  Skye — where  a  wo- 
man had  once  reigned  with  so  great  a  fame  in 
war  that  even  the  foremost  champion  of  Ire- 
land went  to  her  in  his  youth  to  learn  arms 
and  battle-wisdom — restrained  him  from  fac- 
ing the  island  Picts.  Long  before  Hakon 
the  Dane  fought  the  great  seafight  ofif  Largs 
on  the  mainland,  Colum  had  built  a  church 
there.  In  the  far  Perthshire  wilds,  before 
Macbeth  slew  Duncan  the  king,  the  strong 
abbot  of  lona  had  founded  a  monastery  in 
that  thanedom.  At  remote  Inbhir  Nis,  the 
Inverness  of  to-day,  he  overcame  the  King 
of  the  Picts  and  his  sullen  Druids,  by  his 
daring,  the  fierce  magnetism  of  his  will,  his 
dauntless  resource.  Once,  in  a  savage  re- 
gion, far  north-eastward,  towards  the  Scandi- 
navian sea,  he  was  told  that  there  his  Cross 
would  not  long  protect  either  wattled  church 
or  monk's  cell:  on  that  spot  he  built  the 
monastery  of  Deir,  that  stood  for  a  thousand 
years,  and  whose  priceless  manuscript  is  now 
one  of  the  treasures  of  Northumbria. 

131 


lona 

Coltimba  was  at  once  a  saint,  a  warrior,  a 
soldier  of  Christ,  a  great  abbot,  a  dauntless 
explorer,  and  militant  Prince  of  the  Church; 
and  a  student,  a  man  of  great  learning,  a 
poet,  an  artist,  a  visionary,  an  architect,  ad- 
ministrator, law-maker,  judge,  arbiter.  As 
a  youth  this  prince,  for  he  was  of  royal  blood, 
was  so  beautiful  that  he  was  likened  to  an 
angel.  In  mature  manhood,  there  was  none 
to  equal  him  in  stature,  manly  beauty, 
strength,  and  with  a  voice  so  deep  and  pow- 
erful that  it  was  like  a  bell  and  could  be 
heard  on  occasion  a  mile  away,  and  once, 
indeed,  at  the  court  of  King  Bruidh,  Hterally 
overbore  and  drowned  a  concerted  chorus  of 
sullen  druids.  These  had  tried  to  outvoice 
him  and  his  monks,  little  knowing  what  a 
mighty  force  the  sixty-fourth  Psalm  could  be 
in  the  throat  of  this  terrible  Culdee,  who  to 
them  must  have  seemed  much  more  befitting 
his  house-name,  Crimthan  (Wolf),  than  "the 
Dove  "! 

This  vocal  duel  was  a  characteristic  device 
of  the  Druids.  I  recall  one  notable  instance 
long  before  Colum's  time,  though  the  Leab- 
har  na  H'Uidhre  in  which  it  is  to  be  found 
was  not  compiled  till  a.d.  iooo.  In  the  story 
of  the  love  of  Connla,  son  of  Conn  of  the 
Hundred  Battles,  for  a  woman  of  the  other 
132 


lona 

world,  a  druid  asks  her  whence  she  has  come, 
and  when  she  answers  that  it  is  from  the 
lands  of  those  who  live  a  beautiful  and  death- 
less life,  he  knows  that  she  is  a  woman  of  the 
Stdhe.  So  he  chants  against  the  fair  woman 
till  the  spell  of  her  voice  is  overcome,  and 
she  goes  away  as  a  mist  that  falls  on  the 
shore,  as  a  Hebridean  poet  would  say.^ 

Later,  she  comes  again,  and  now  invisible 
to  all  save  Connla.  Conn  the  king  hears  her 
chanting  to  Connla  that  it  is  no  such  lofty 
place  he  holds  "  amid  short-lived  mortals 
awaiting  fearful  death  "  that  he  need  dread 
to  leave  it,  "  the  more  as  the  ever-living  ones 
invite  thee  to  be  the  ruler  over  Tethra  (a 
Kingdom  of  Joy)."  So  once  more  the  king 
calls  upon  the  Ard-Druid  to  dispel  the 
woman  by  his  incantations.  For  a  moment 
Connla  wavers,  but  the  Fairy  Woman,  with 
a  music  of  mockery,  sings  to  him  that  Druid- 
ism  is  in  ill-favour  "  over  yonder,"  little  loved 
and  little  honoured  "  there,"  for,  in  effect,  the 
nations  of  the  Shee  do  not  need  that  idle 
dream.  Connla's  longing  is  more  great  to 
him  than  his  kingdom  or  the  fires  of  home, 

1  In  a  beautiful  old  Scoto-Gaelic  ballad,  the  "B^s 
Fhraoich,"  occurs  the  line,  Thuit  i  air  an  traigh  na 
neul,  "she  fell  on  the  shore  as  a  mist,"  though  here 
finely  used  for  a  swoon  only. 


I  on  a 

and  he  goes  with  his  leannanshee  in  a  boat, 
till  those  on  the  strand  see  him  dimly  and 
then  no  more  in  that  sundown  glow,  nor  ever 
again.  Columba,  a  poet  and  scholar  famil- 
iar with  the  old  tables  of  his  beloved  Eire, 
probably  did  not  forget  on  occasion  to  turn 
this  druidic  tale  against  Druidism  itself,  re- 
peating how,  in  its  own  time,  before  the  little 
bell  of  the  tonsured  folk  was  heard  in  Ire- 
land (so  little  a  bell  to  be  the  tocsin  of  fallen 
gods  and  broken  nations),  "  Druidism  is  not 
loved,  for  little  has  it  progressed  to  honour 
on  the  great  Righteous  Strand." 

For  one  thing  of  great  Gaelic  import,  Co- 
lumba has  been  given  a  singular  preemi- 
nence— not  for  his  love  of  country,  pride  of 
race,  passionate  loyalty  to  his  clan,  to  every 
blood-claim  and  foster-claim,  and  friendship- 
claim,  though  in  all  this  he  was  the  very 
archetype  of  the  clannish  Gael — but  because 
(so  it  is  averred)  he  was  the  first  of  our  race 
of  whom  is  recorded  the  systematic  use  of  the 
strange  gift  of  spiritual  foresight,  "  second- 
sight."  It  has  been  stated  authoritatively  that 
he  is  the  first  of  whom  there  is  record  as  hav- 
ing possessed  this  faculty ;  but  that  could  only 
be  averred  by  one  ignorant  of  ancient  Gaelic 
literature.      Even    in    Adamnan's    chronicle, 

134 


lona 

within  some  seventy  years  after  the  death  of 
Columba,  there  is  record  of  others  having 
this  faculty,  apart  from  the  perhaps  more 
purely  spiritual  vision  of  his  mother  Aithne, 
when  an  angel  raimented  her  with  the  beauty 
of  her  unborn  son,  or  of  his  foster-father,  the 
priest  Cruithnechan,  who  saw  the  singular 
light  of  the  soul  about  his  sleeping  pupil,  or 
of  the  abbot  Brendan  who  redeemed  the  saint 
from  excommunication  and  perhaps  death  by 
his  vision  of  him  advancing  with  a  pillar  of 
fire  before  him  and  an  angel  on  either  side. 
(When,  long  years  afterwards,  Brendan  died 
in  Ireland,  Colum  in  lona  startled  his  monks 
by  calling  for  an  immediate  celebration  of  the 
Eucharist,  because  it  had  been  revealed  to 
him  that  St.  Brendan  had  gone  to  the  heav- 
enly fatherland  yesternight :  "  Angels  came  to 
meet  his  soul :  I  saw  the  whole  earth  illumined 
with  their  glory.")  Among  others  there  is 
the  story  of  Abbot  Kenneth,  who,  sitting  at 
supper,  rose  so  suddenly  as  to  leave  without 
his  sandals,  and  at  the  altar  of  his  church 
prayed  for  Colum,  at  that  moment  in  dire 
peril  upon  the  sea:  the  story  of  Ernan,  who, 
fishing  in  the  river  Fenda,  saw  the  death  of 
Colum  in  a  symbol  of  flame:  the  story  of 
Lugh  mac  Tailchan,  who,  at  Cloinfinchoil,  be- 
held lona   (which  he  had  never  visited),  and 

135 


lona 

above  it  a  blaze  of  angels'  wings,  and  Colum's 
soul.  In  the  most  ancient  tales  there  is  fre- 
quent allusion  to  what  we  call  second-sight. 
The  writers  alluded  to  could  not  have  heard 
of  the  warning  of  the  dread  Mor-Rigan  to 
Cuchullin  before  the  fatal  strife  of  the  Tain- 
B6-Cuailgne;  or  Cuchullin's  own  pre-vision 
(among  a  score  as  striking)  of  the  hostings 
and  gatherings  on  the  fatal  plain  of  Muir- 
themne ;  or  the  Amazonian  queen,  Scathach's, 
fore-knowledge  of  the  career  and  early  death 
of  the  champion  of  the  Gaels : 

' '  (At  the  last)  great  peril  awaits  thee  .   .  . 
Alone  against  a  vast  herd: 
Thirty  years   I   reckon  the  length  of  thy  years 

(literally,  the  strength  of  thy  valour) ; 
Further  than  this  I  do  not  add;" 

or  of  Deirdre's  second-sight,  when  by  the 
white  cairn  on  Sliav  Fuad  she  saw  the  sons 
of  Usna  headless,  and  Illann  the  Fair  head- 
less too,  but  Buimne  the  Ruthless  Red  with 
his  head  upon  his  shoulders,  smiling  a  grim 
smile — when  she  saw  over  Naois,  her  beloved, 
a  cloud  of  blood — or  that,  alas,  too  bitter-true 
a  foreseeing,  when  in  the  Craebh  Derg,  the 
House  of  the  Red  Branch,  she  cried  to  her 
lover  and  his  two  brothers  that  death  was  at 
the  door  and  "  grievous  to  me  is  the  deed, 
136 


lona 

O  darling  friends — and  till  the  world's  end 
Emain  will  not  be  better  for  a  single  night 
than  it  is  to-night."  Or,  again,  of  that  pa- 
thetic, simultaneous  death-vision  of  Baile  the 
Sweet-Spoken  and  Aillinn,  he  in  the  north,  she 
in  the  south,  so  that  each  out  of  a  grief  un- 
bearable straightway  died,  as  told  in  one  of 
the  oldest  as  well  as  loveliest  of  ancient 
Gaelic  tales,  the  Sccl  Baili  Binnbcrlaig. 

There  is  something  strangely  beautiful  in 
most  of  these  "  second-sight  "  stories  of  Co- 
lumba.  The  faculty  itself  is  so  apt  to  the 
spiritual  law  that  one  wonders  why  it  is  so 
set  apart  in  doubt.  It  would,  I  think,  be  far 
stranger  if  there  were  no  such  faculty. 

That  I  believe,  it  were  needless  to  say, 
were  it  not  that  these  words  may  be  read  by 
many  to  whom  this  quickened  inward  vision 
is  a  superstition,  or  a  fantastic  glorification  of 
insight.  I  believe ;  not  only  because  there  is 
nothing  too  strange  for  the  soul,  whose  vision 
surely  I  will  not  deny,  while  I  accept  what  is 
lesser,  the  mind's  prescience,  and,  what  is 
least,  the  testimony  of  the  eyes.  That  I  have 
cause  to  believe  is  perhaps  too  personal  a 
statement,  and  is  of  little  account;  but  in  that 
interior  wisdom,  which  is  no  longer  the  flicker 
of  one  little  green  leaf  but  the  light  and 
sound  of  a  forest,  of  which  the  leaf  is  a  part, 

137 


lona 

I  know  that  to  be  true,  which  I  should  as  soon 
doubt  as  that  the  tide  returns  or  that  the  sap 
rises  or  that  dawn  is  a  ceaseless  flashing  light 
beneath  the  circuit  of  the  stars.  Spiritual 
logic  demands  it. 

It  would  ill  become  me  to  do  otherwise.  I 
would  as  little,  however,  deny  that  this  in- 
ward vision  is  sometimes  imperfect  and  un- 
trustworthy, as  I  would  assert  that  it  is  in- 
fallible. There  is  no  common  face  of  good 
or  evil;  and  in  like  fashion  the  aspect  of  this 
so-called  mystery  is  variable  as  the  lives  of 
those  in  whom  it  dwells.  With  some  it  is  a 
prescience,  more  akin  to  instinct  than  to 
reason,  and  obtains  only  among  the  lesser 
possibilities,  as  when  one  beholds  another 
where  in  the  body  none  is ;  or  a  scene  not  pos- 
sible, there,  in  that  place;  or  a  face,  a  meet- 
ing of  shadows,  a  disclosure  of  hazard  or 
accident,  a  coming  into  view  of  happenings 
not  yet  fulfilled.  With  some  it  is  simply  a 
larger  sight,  more  wide,  more  deep ;  not 
habitual,  because  there  is  none  of  us  who  is 
not  subject  to  the  law  of  the  body;  and  sud- 
den, because  all  tense  vision  is  a  passion  of 
the  moment.  It  is  as  the  lightning,  whose 
sustenance  is  sure  for  all  that  it  has  a  second's 
life.  With  a  few  it  is  a  more  constant  com- 
panion, a  dweller  by  the  morning  thought,  by 

138 


lona 

the  noon  reverie,  by  the  evening  dream.  It 
Hes  upon  the  pillow  for  some;  to  some  it  as 
though  the  wind  disclosed  pathways  of  the 
air ;  a  swaying  branch,  a  dazzle  on  the  wave, 
the  quick  recognition  in  unfamiliar  eyes,  is, 
for  others,  sufficient  signal.  Not  that  these 
accidents  of  the  manner  need  concern  us 
much.  We  have  the  faculty,  or  we  do  not 
have  it.  Nor  must  we  forget  that  it  can  be 
the  portion  of  the  ignoble  as  well  as  of  those 
whose  souls  are  clear.  When  it  is  in  truth  a 
spiritual  vision,  then  we  are  in  company  of 
what  is  the  essential  life,  that  which  we  call 
divine. 

It  was  this  that  Columba  had,  this  serene 
perspicuity.  That  it  was  a  conscious  posses- 
sion we  know  from  his  own  words,  for  he 
gave  this  answer  to  one  who  marvelled : 
"  Heaven  has  granted  to  some  to  see  on  occa- 
sion in  their  mind,  clearly  and  surely,  the 
whole  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky." 

It  is  not  unlikely  that  in  the  seventy 
years  which  elapsed  between  Colum's  death 
and  the  writing  of  that  lovely  classic  of  the 
Church,  Adamnan's  Vita  St.  Columba:,  some 
stories  grew  around  the  saint's  memory  which 
were  rather  the  tribute  of  childlike  rever- 
ence and  love  than  the  actual  experiences  of 
the  holy  man  himself.     What  then?    A  field 

139 


lona 

in  May  is  not  the  less  a  daughter  of  Spring, 
because  the  cowslip-wreaths  found  there  may 
have  been  brought  from  little  wayward 
garths  by  children  who  wove  them  lovingly  as 
they  came. 

Many  of  these  strange  records  are  mere 
coincidences ;  others  reveal  so  happy  a  sure- 
ty in  the  simple  faith  of  the  teller  that  we 
need  only  smile,  and  with  no  more  resentment 
than  at  a  child  who  runs  to  say  he  has  found 
stars  in  a  wayside  pool.  Others  are  rather 
the  keen  insight  of  a  ceaseless  observation 
than  the  seeing  of  an  inward  sense.  But,  and 
perhaps  oftener,  they  are  not  inherently  in- 
credible. I  do  not  think  our  forebears  did  ill 
to  give  haven  to  these  little  ones  of  faith, 
rather  than  to  despise,  or  to  drive  them  away. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  Columba  as  an- 
other St.  Francis,  because  of  his  tenderness 
for  creatures.  I  recall  now  the  lovely  legend 
(for  I  do  not  think  Colum  himself  attributed 
"second-sight"  to  an  animal)  which  tells 
how  the  old  white  pony  which  daily  brought 
the  milk  from  the  cow-shed  to  the  monastery 
came  and  put  its  head  in  the  lap  of  the  aged 
and  feeble  abbot,  thus  mutely  to  bid  fare- 
well. Let  Adamnan  tell  it :  "  This  creature 
then  coming  up  to  the  saint,  and  knowing  that 
his  master  would  soon  depart  from  him,  and 
140 


lona 

that  he  would  see  his  face  no  more,  began  to 
utter  plaintive  moans,  and,  as  if  a  man,  to 
shed  tears  in  abundance  into  the  saint's  lap, 
and  so  to  weep,  frothing  greatly.  Which 
when  the  attendant  saw,  he  began  to  drive 
away  that  weeping  mourner.  But  the  saint 
forbade  him,  saying,  *  Let  him  alone !  As  he 
loves  me  so,  let  him  alone,  that  into  this  my 
bosom  he  may  pour  out  the  tears  of  his  most 
bitter  lamentation.  Behold,  thou,  a  man,  that 
hast  a  soul,  yet  in  no  way  hast  knowledge  of 
my  end  save  what  I  have  myself  shown  thee; 
but  to  this  brute  animal  the  Master  Himself 
hath  revealed  that  his  master  is  about  to  go 
away  from  him.'  And  so  saying,  he  blessed 
his  sorrowing  servant  the  horse." 

If  there  be  any  to  whom  the  aged  Colum 
comforting  the  grief  of  his  old  white  pony  is 
a  matter  of  disdain  or  derision,  I  would  not 
have  his  soul  in  exchange  for  the  dumb  sor- 
row of  that  creature.  One  would  fare 
further  with  that  sorrow,  though  soulless, 
than  with  the  soul  that  could  not  understand 
that  sorrow. 

If  one  were  to  quote  from  Adamnan's  three 
Books  of  the  Prophecies,  Miracles,  and  Vis- 
ions of  Columba,  there  would  be  another 
book.  Amid  much  that  is  childlike,  and  a  lit- 
tle that  is  childish,  what  store  of  spiritual 
141 


lona 

beauty  and  living  symbol  in  these  three  books 
— the  Book  of  Prophetic  Revelations,  the 
Book  of  Miracles  of  Power,  the  Book  of 
Angelic  Visitations.  But  there,  as  elsewhere, 
one  must  bear  in  remembrance  that,  in  spir- 
itual sight,  there  is  symbolic  vision  as  well  as 
actual  vision.  When  Colum  saw  his  friend 
Columbanus  (who,  unknown  to  any  on  lona, 
had  set  out  in  his  frail  coracle  from  the  Isle 
of  Rathlin)  tossed  in  the  surges  of  Corryvre- 
chan ;  or  when,  nigh  Glen  Urquhart,  he  hur- 
ried forward  to  minister  to  an  old  dying  Pict 
"  who  had  lived  well  by  the  light  of  nature," 
and  whose  house,  condition,  and  end  had  been 
suddenly  revealed  to  him :  then  we  have  actual 
vision.  When  Aithne,  his  mother,  dreamed 
that  an  angel  showed  her  a  garment  of  so  sur- 
passing a  loveliness  that  it  was  as  though 
woven  of  flowers  and  rainbows,  and  then 
threw  it  on  high,  till  its  folds  expanded  and 
covered  every  mountain-top  from  the  brows 
of  Connaught  to  the  feet  of  the  Danish  sea, 
and  so  revealed  to  her  what  manner  of  son 
she  bore  within  her  womb;  or  when,  in  the 
hour  of  Colum's  death,  the  aged  son  of  Tail- 
chan  beheld  the  whole  expanse  of  air  flooded 
with  the  blaze  of  angels'  wings,  which  trem- 
bled with  their  songs :  then  we  have  symbolic 
vision.  And  sometimes  we  have  that  which 
142 


lona 

partakes  of  each,  as  when  (as  Adamnan  tells 
us  in  his  third  book)  Colum  saw  angels  stand- 
ing upon  the  rocks  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Sound  which  divides  lona  from  the  Ross  of 
Mull,  calling  to  his  soul  to  cross  to  them,  yet, 
as  they  assembled  and  beckoned,  mysteriously 
and  suddenly  restrained,  for  his  hour  was  not 
come. 

And  in  all  actual  vision  there  is  gradation; 
from  what  is  so  common,  premonition,  to 
what  is  not  common,  prescience,  and  to  what 
is  rare,  revelation.  Thus  when  the  labourers 
on  lona  looked  up  from  the  fields  and  saw 
the  aged  abbot  whom  they  so  loved,  borne  in 
a  wagon  to  give  them  benediction  at  seed- 
sowing,  many  among  them  knew  that  they 
would  not  see  Colum  again,  and  Colum  knew 
it,  and  so  shared  that  premonition.  And 
when,  many  years  before,  he  and  the  abbot 
Comgell,  returning  from  a  futile  conference 
of  the  kings  Aedh  and  Aidan,  rested  by  a 
spring,  concerning  which  Colum  said  that  the 
day  would  come  when  it  would  be  filled  with 
human  blood,  "  because  my  people,  the  Hy- 
Neill,  and  the  Pictish  folk,  thy  relations 
according  to  the  flesh,  will  wage  war  by 
this  fortress  of  Cethirn  close  by,"  Comgell 
learned,  through  Colum's  foreknowledge,  of 
what  did  in  truth  come  to  pass.    Again,  when 

143 


lona 

Colum  bade  a  brother  go  three  days  thence  to 
the  sea-shore  on  the  west  side  of  lona,  and 
He  in  readiness  to  help  "  a  certain  guest,  a 
crane  to  wit,  beaten  by  the  winds  during  long 
and  circuitous  and  aerial  flights,  which  will 
arrive  after  the  ninth  hour  of  the  day,  very 
weary  and  sore  distressed,"  and  bade  him  to 
lift  it  and  tend  it  lovingly  for  three  days  and 
three  nights  till  it  should  have  strength  to  re- 
turn to  "  its  former  sweet  home,"  and  to  do 
this  out  of  love  and  courtesy  because  "it  comes 
from  our  fatherland  " — and  when  all  happens 
and  is  done  as  the  saint  foretold  and  com- 
manded, then  we  have  revelation,  the  vision 
that  is  absolute,  the  knowledge  that  is  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  inevitable.  It  would  take  a 
book  indeed  to  tell  all  the  stories  of  Columba's 
visionary  and  prophetic  powers.  That  I  write 
at  this  length  concerning  him,  indeed,  is  be- 
cause he  is  himself  lona.  Columba  is  Chris- 
tian lona,  as  much  as  lona  is  Icolmkill.  I  have 
often  wondered  (because  of  a  passage  in 
Adamnan)  if  the  island  be  not  indeed  named 
after  him,  the  Dove:  for  as  Adamnan  says 
incidentally,  the  name  Columba  is  identical 
with  the  Hebrew  name  Jonah,  also  signify- 
ing a  Dove,  and  by  the  Hebrews  pronounced 
lona. 

It  is  enough  now  to  recall  that  this  man,  so 

144 


lona 

often  erring  but  so  human  always,  in  whose 
Hfe  we  see  the  soul  of  lona  as  in  a  glass,  is 
become  the  archetype  of  his  race,  as  lona  is 
the  microcosm  of  the  Gaelic  world.  That  he 
came  into  this  life  heralded  by  dreams  and 
visions,  that  from  his  youth  onward  to  old 
age  he  knew  every  mystery  of  dream  and 
vision,  and  that  before  and  after  his  death 
his  soul  was  revealed  to  others  through 
dreams  and  visions,  is  but  an  added  hieratic 
grace:  yet  we  do  well  to  recall  often  how 
these  dreams  before  and  these  visions  after 
were  angelical,  and  nobly  beautiful :  how  there 
was  left  of  him,  and  to  his  little  company,  and 
to  us  for  remembrance,  that  last  signal  vision 
of  a  blaze  of  angelic  wings,  more  intolerable 
than  the  sun  at  noon,  the  tempestuous  multi- 
tude trembling  with  the  storm  of  song. 

Columba  and  Oran  .  .  .  these  are  the 
two  great  names  in  lona.  Love  and  Faith 
have  made  one  immortal ;  the  other  lives 
also,  clothed  in  legend.  I  am  afraid  there  is 
not  much  definite  basis  for  the  popular  lona 
legend  of  Oran.  It  is  now  the  wont  of  guides 
and  others  to  speak  of  the  Reilig  Odhrain, 
Oran's  burial-place,  as  that  of  Columba's 
friend  (and  victim),  but  it  seems  likelier  that 
the  Oran  who  lies  here  is  he  who  is  spoken 

145 


lona 

of  in  the  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters  as  hav- 
ing died  in  the  year  548,  that  is  fifteen  years 
before  Colum  came  to  the  island.  This,  how- 
ever, might  well  be  a  mistake:  what  is  more 
convincing  is  that  Adamnan  never  mentions 
the  episode,  nor  even  the  name  of  Oran,  nor 
is  there  mention  of  him  in  that  book  of  Co- 
lum's  intimate  friend  and  successor,  Baith- 
ene,  which  Adamnan  practically  incorporated. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Oran  legend  is  cer- 
tainly very  old.  The  best  modern  rendering 
we  have  of  it  is  that  of  Mr.  Whitley  Stokes 
in  his  Three  Middle-Irish  Homilies,  and 
readers  of  Dr.  Skene's  valuable  Celtic  Scot- 
land recollect  the  translation  there  re- 
dacted. The  episode  occurs  first  in  an  an- 
cient Irish  life  of  St.  Columba.  The  legend, 
which  has  crystallised  into  a  popular  saying, 
"  Uir,  uir,  air  suil  Odhrain !  mu'n  labhair  e 
tuille  comhraidh  " — "  Earth,  earth  on  Oran's 
eyes,  lest  he  further  blab  " — avers  that  three 
days  after  the  monk  Oran  or  Odran  was  en- 
tombed alive  (some  say  in  the  earth,  some  in 
a  cavity),  Colum  opened  the  grave,  to  look 
once  more  on  the  face  of  the  dead  brother, 
when  to  the  amazed  fear  of  the  monks  and 
the  bitter  anger  of  the  abbot  himself,  Oran 
opened  his  eyes  and  exclaimed,  "  There  is  no 
such  great  wonder  in  death,  nor  is  Hell  what 
146 


lona 

it  has  been  described."  (Ifrinn,  or  Ifurin — 
the  word  used — is  the  Gaelic  Hell,  the  Land 
of  Eternal  Cold.)  At  this,  Colum  straight- 
way cried  the  now  famous  Gaelic  words,  and 
then  covered  up  poor  Oran  again  lest  he 
should  blab  further  of  that  uncertain  world 
whither  he  was  supposed  to  have  gone.  In 
the  version  given  by  Mr.  Whitley  Stokes 
there  is  no  mention  of  Odran's  grave  having 
been  uncovered  after  his  entombment.  But 
what  is  strangely  suggestive  is  that  both  in 
the  oral  legend  and  in  that  early  monkish 
chronicle  alluded  to,  Columba  is  repre- 
sented as  either  suggesting  or  accepting  im- 
molation of  a  living  victim  as  a  sacrifice 
to  consecrate  the  church  he  intended  to 
build. 

One  story  is  that  he  received  a  divine  in- 
timation to  the  effect  that  a  monk  of  his 
company  must  be  buried  alive,  and  that 
Odran  offered  himself.  In  the  earliest  known 
rendering  "  Colum  Cille  said  to  his  people: 
'  It  is  well  for  us  that  our  roots  should  go 
underground  here ' ;  and  he  said  to  them, 
'  It  is  permitted  to  you  that  some  one  of  you 
go  under  the  earth  of  this  island  to  consecrate 
it.'  Odran  rose  up  readily,  and  thus  he  said : 
*  If  thou  wouldst  accept  me,'  he  said,  '  I  am 
ready    for    that.'  .  .  .  Odran    then    went    to 

147 


I  on  a 

heaven.  Coliim  Cille  then  founded  the 
Church  of   Hii." 

It  would  be  a  dark  stain  on  Columba  if 
this  legend  were  true.  But  apart  from  the 
fact  that  Adamnan  does  not  speak  of  it  or 
of  Oran,  the  probabilities  are  against  its 
truth.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is,  perhaps, 
quite  as  improbable  that  there  was  no  basis 
for  the  legend.  I  imagine  the  likelier  basis  to 
be  that  a  druid  suffered  death  in  this  fashion 
under  that  earlier  Odran  of  whom  there  is 
mention  in  the  Ajuials  of  the  Four  Masters: 
possibly,  that  Odran  himself  was  the  mar- 
tyr, and  the  Ard-Druid  the  person  who  had 
"  the  divine  intimation."  Again,  before  it  be 
attributed  to  Columba,  one  would  have  to  find 
if  there  is  record  of  such  an  act  having  been 
performed  among  the  Irish  of  that  day.  We 
have  no  record  of  it.  It  is  not  improbable 
that  the  whole  legend  is  a  symbolical  survival, 
an  ancient  teaching  of  some  elementary  mys- 
tery through  some  real  or  apparent  sacri- 
ficial rite. 

Among  the  people  of  lona  to-day  there  is 
a  very  confused  idea  about  St.  Oran.  To  some 
he  is  a  saint :  to  others  an  evil-doer :  some 
think  he  was  a  martyr,  some  that  he  was  pun- 
ished for  a  lapse  from  virtue.  Some  swear 
by  his  grave,  as  though  it  were  almost  as  sa- 
148 


lona 

cred  as  the  Black  Stone  of  lona :  to  others, 
perhaps  most,  his  is  now  but  an  idle  name. 

By  the  Black  Stone  of  lona!  One  may 
hear  that  in  Icolmkill  or  anywhere  in  the 
west.  It  used  to  be  the  most  binding  oath  in 
the  Highlands,  and  even  now  is  held  as  an  in- 
disputable warrant  of  truth.  In  lona  itself, 
strangely  enough,  one  would  be  much  more 
likely  to  hear  a  statement  affirmed  "  by  St. 
Martin's  Cross."  On  this  stone — the  old 
Druidic  Stone  of  Destiny,  sacred  among 
the  Gael  before  Christ  was  born — Columba 
crowned  Aidan  King  of  Argyll.  Later,  the 
stone  was  taken  to  Dunstaffnage,  where  the 
Lords  of  the  Isles  were  made  princes :  thence 
to  Scone,  where  the  last  of  the  Celtic  Kings 
of  Scotland  was  crowned  on  it.  It  now  lies 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  a  part  of  the  Corona- 
tion Chair,  and  since  Edward  I.  every  Brit- 
ish monarch  has  been  crowned  upon  it.  If 
ever  the  Stone  of  Destiny  be  moved  again,  that 
writing  on  the  wall  will  be  the  signature  of  a 
falling  dynasty ;  but  perhaps,  like  lona  in  the 
island  saying,  this  can  be  left  to  the  Gaelic 
equivalent  of  Nevermas,  "  gus  am  bi  Mac- 
Cailein  na'  righ,"  "  till  Argyll  be  a  king." 

In  my  childhood   I   well   recall  meeting  in 
lona  an  old   man   who  had  come   from  the 
149 


X 


lona 

glens  of  Antrim,  to  me  memorable  because 
he  was  the  last  Gaelic  minstrel  of  the  old  kind 
I  have  seen.  "  It  was  a  poor  land,  Antrim," 
he  said,  "  with  no  Gaelic,  a  bitter  lot  o'  pro- 
testantry,  an'  little  music." 

I  remember,  too,  his  adding  in  effect: 
"  It  is  in  the  west  you  should  be  if  you 
want  music,  an'  men  and  women  without 
coldness  or  the  hard  mouth.  In  Donegal  an' 
Mayo  an'  all  down  Connemara-way  to  the 
cliffs  of  Moher  you'll  hear  the  wind  an'  the 
voices  o'  the  Shee  with  never  a  man  to  curse 
the  one  or  the  other."  I  asked  him  why  he 
had  come  to  lona.  It  was  to  see  the  isle  of 
Colum,  he  said,  "  St.  Briget's  brother,  God 
bless  the  pair  av'  thim."  He  was  on  his  way 
to  Oban,  thence  to  go  to  a  far  place  in  the 
Athole  country,  where  his  daughter  had  mar- 
ried a  factor  who  had  returned  to  his  own 
land  from  the  Irish  west,  and  was  the  more 
dear  to  the  old  man  because  his  only  liv- 
ing blood-kin,  and  because  she  had  called 
her  little  girl  by  the  name  of  the  old  harp- 
er's long-lost  love,  "  my  love  an'  my 
wife." 

The  last  harper,  though  he  had  not  his  harp 
with  him.  He  had  come  from  Drogheda  in  a 
cattle-boat  to  Islay  (whence  he  had  sailed  in 
a  fishing-smack  to  lona),  and  his  friend  the 

150 


lona 

mate  had  promised  to  leave  the  harp  and  his 
other  belongings  at  Oban  in  safe  keeping.  He 
had  with  him,  however,  a  small  instrument 
that  he  called  his  little  clar.  It  was  something 
between  a  guitar  and  a  cithern,  suggestive  of 
a  primitive  violin,  and  he  played  on  it  some- 
times with  his  fingers,  sometimes  with  a 
short  bit  of  wood  like  a  child's  tipcat;  and, 
he  said,  could  make  good  music  with  a  hazel- 
wand  or  "  the  dry  straight  rod  of  a  quicken 
when  that's  to  be  had."  He  said  this 
quaint  instrument  had  come  down  to  him 
through  fifty-one  generations :  literally,  "  elev- 
en and  twice  twenty  shcanairean  (grand- 
fathers, or  elders  or  forebears),"  of  whom 
he  could  at  any  moment  give  the  pedi- 
gree of  ceithir  deiig  air  'fhichead,"  four  and 
ten  upon  twenty " — that  is,  to  translate 
the  Gaelic  method  of  enumeration,  "  thirty- 
four." 

This  was  at  the  house  of  a  minister  then 
lodging  in  the  island,  and  it  was  he  who 
hosted  the  old  harper.  He  told  me,  later, 
that  he  had  no  doubt  this  was  the  old-world 
cruit,  the  Welsh  crwth  of  to-day,  and  the 
once  colloquial  Lowland  "  crowther,"  akin  to 
the  Roman  canora  cythara,  the  "  forebear  " 
of  the  modern  Spanish  guitar.  To  this  day,  I 
may  add,  Highlanders  (at  least  in  the  west) 


lona 

call  the  guitar  the  Cruit-Spanteach.  There 
seem  to  have  been  four  kinds  of  "harp" 
in  the  old  days :  the  clar  or  clarsach,  the 
kairneen  (ceirnine),  the  kreemtheencrooth 
(cream-thine-cruit),  and  the  cionar  cruit. 
The  clarsach  was  the  harp  proper;  that  is, 
the  small  Celtic  harp.  The  ceirnine  was  the 
smaller  hand-harp.  The  "  creamthine  cruit  " 
had  six  strings,  and  was  probably  used  chiefly 
at  festivals,  possibly  for  a  strong  sonance  to 
accentuate  chants;  while  the  cionar  cruit  had 
ten  strings,  and  was  played  either  by  a  bow 
or  with  a  wooden  or  other  instrument.  It 
must  have  been  a  cionar-cruit,  ancient  or  a 
rude  later-day  imitation,  that  the  old  harper 
had. 

Poor  old  man,  I  fear  he  never  played  on  his 
harp  again ;  for  I  learned  later  that  he  had 
found  his  Athole  haven  broken  up,  and  his 
daughter  and  her  husband  about  to  emi- 
grate to  Canada,  so  that  he  went  with  them, 
and  died  on  the  way — perhaps  as  much  from 
the  mountain-longing  and  home-sickness  as 
from  any  more  tangible  ill. 

I  have  a  double  memento  of  him  that  I 
value.  In  Islay  he  had  bought  or  been  given 
a  little  book  of  Gaelic  songs  (the  Scoto-Gaelic 
must  have  puzzled  him  sorely,  poor  old  eirion- 
nach),  and  this  he  left  behind  him,  and  my 

I '^2 


lona 

minister  friend  gave  it  to  me,  with  much  of 
the  above  noted  down  on  its  end-pages.  The 
little  book  had  been  printed  early  in  the  cen- 
tury, and  was  called  Ccillcirean  Binn  nan 
Creagan  Aosda,  literally  "  Melodious  Little 
Warblings  from  the  Aged  Rocks " ;  and  it 
has  always  been  dear  to  me  because  of  one 
lovely  phrase  in  it  about  birds,  where  the 
unknown  Gaelic  singer  calls  them  "  clann 
bheag'  nam  preas,"  the  small  clan  of  the 
bushes,  equivalent  in  English  to  "  the  children 
of  the  bushes."  This  occurs  in  a  lovely 
verse — 

"Mu'n  cuairt  do  bhruachaibh  ard  mo  glinn, 
Biodh  luba  gheuga  's  orra  blath, 
's  clann  bheag'  nam  preas  a'  tabhairst  seinn 
Do  chreagaibh  aosd  oran  graidh." 

("  Along  the  lofty  sides  of  my  glen  let  there 
be  bending  boughs  clad  in  blossom,  and  the 
children  of  the  bushes  making  the  aged  rocks 
re-echo  their  songs  of  love") — truly  a  char- 
acteristic Gaelic  wish,  characteristically  ex- 
pressed. 

And  though  this  that  I  am  about  to  say  did 
not  happen  on  lona,  I  may  tell  it  here,  for  it 
was  there  and  from  an  islander  I  heard  it, 
an  old  man  herding  among  the  troubled 
rocky   pastures  of   Sguir   Mor  and   Cnoc  na 

153 


lona 

Fhiona,  in  the  south  of  that  western  part 
called  Sliav  Starr — one  translation  of  which 
might  be  Wuthering  Heights,  for  the  word 
can  be  rendered  wind-blustery  or  wind-noisy ; 
though  I  fancy  that  starr  is,  on  lona,  com- 
monly taken  to  mean  a  strong  coarse  grass. 
(Fhiona  here  I  take  to  be  not  the  genitive  of 
a  name,  nor  that  of  "  wine,"  but  a  misspell- 
ing of  fionna,  grain.) 

When  he  was  a  boy  he  was  in  the  island  of 
Barra,  he  said,  and  he  had  a  foster-brother 
called  Iain  Macneil.  Iain  was  born  with  mu- 
sic in  his  mind,  for  though  he  was  ever  a 
poor  creature  as  a  man,  having  as  a  child 
eaten  of  the  bird's  heart,  he  could  hear  a 
power  o'  wonder  in  the  wind.^  He  had  never 
come  to  any  good  in  a  worldly  sense,  my  old 
herdsman  Micheil  said;  but  it  was  not  from 
want  of  cleverness  only,  but  because  "  he  had 
enough  with  his  music."  "  Poor  man,  he 
failed  in  everything  he  did  but  that — and, 
sure,  that  was  not  against  him,  for  is  ann  air 
an  traghadh  a  riigadh  e — wasn't  he  bom  when 
the  tide  was  ebbing?"  Besides,  there  was  a 
mystery.     Iain's    father  was   said   to   be  an 

'  An  allusion  to  the  Hebridean  proverb,  Ma  dh' 
itheas  tu  cridh  an  ebin,  bidh  do  chridhe  air  chrith  ri 
d'  bhed  ("  If  you  eat  the  bird's  heart,  your  heart  will 
palpitate  for  ever.") 


lona 

lona  man,  but  that  was  only  a  politeness  and 
a  play  upon  words  {"  The  Holy  Isle  of  the 
Western  Sea  "  could  mean  either  lona  or  the 
mystic  Hy-Brasil,  or  Tir-na-thonn  of  the 
underworld)  ;  for  he  had  no  mortal  father, 
but  a  man  of  the  Smiling  Distant  People  was 
his  father.  Iain's  mother  had  loved  her 
Leannan-shee,  her  fairy  sweetheart,  but  that 
love  is  too  strong  for  a  woman  to  bear,  and 
she  died.  Before  Iain  was  born  she  lay  under 
a  bush  of  whitethorn,  and  her  Leannan  ap- 
peared to  her.  "  I  can't  give  you  life,"  he 
said,  "  unless  you'll  come  away  with  me." 
But  she  would  not;  for  she  wished  the  child 
to  have  Christian  baptism.  "  Well,  good- 
bye," he  said,  "  but  you  are  a  weak  love.  A 
woman  should  care  more  for  her  lover  than 
her  child.  But  I'll  do  this:  I'll  give  the  child 
the  dew,  an'  he  won't  die,  an'  we'll  take  him 
away  when  we  want  him.  An'  for  a  gift  to 
him,  you  can  have  either  beauty  or  music." 
"  I  don't  want  the  dew,"  she  said,  "  for  I'd 
rather  he  lay  below  the  grass  beside  me  when 
his  time  comes :  an'  as  for  beauty,  it's  been 
my  sorrow.  But  because  I  love  the  songs  you 
have  sung  to  me  an'  wooed  me  with,  an' 
made  me  forget  to  hide  my  soul  from  you — 
an'  it  fallen  as  helpless  as  a  broken  wave  on 
damp  sand — let  the  child  have  the  binn-hcul 

155 


lona 

an'    the    latiih    clarsaircachd    (the    melodious 
mouth  an'  the  harping  hand)." 

And  truly  enough  Iain  Macneil  "  went 
away."  He  went  back  to  his  own  people.  It 
must  have  been  a  grief  to  him  not  to  lie  un- 
der the  grass  beside  his  mother,  but  it  was  not 
for  his  helping.  For  days  before  he  mysteri- 
ously disappeared  he  went  about  making  a 
ciucharan  like  a  November  wind,  a  singular 
plaintive  moaning.  When  asked  by  his  fos- 
ter-brother Micheil  why  he  was  not  content, 
he  answered  only  "  Far  am  hi  mo  ghaol, 
bidh  mo  thathaich "  (Where  my  Love  is, 
there  must  my  returning  be).  He  had  for 
days,  said  Micheil,  the  mournful  crying  in  the 
ear  that  is  so  often  a  presage  of  death  or  sor- 
row; and  himself  had  said  once  "  Tha  'n  eabh 
a'  m'  chenais  " — the  cry  is  in  my  ear.  When 
he  went  away,  that  going  was  the  way  of 
the  snow. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  legends  of  Finn  and 
Oisein,  of  Oscur  and  Gaul  and  Diarmid,  of 
Cuchullin,  and  many  of  the  old  stories  of  the 
Gaelic  chivalry  survive  in  the  isles.  There, 
more  than  in  Ireland,  Gaelic  has  survived  as 
the  living  speech,  and  though  now  in  the 
Inner  Hebrides  it  is  dying  before  "  an  a' 
Beurla,"  the  English  tongue,  and  still  more 

156 


lona 

before  the  degraded  "  Bheurla  leathan "  or 
Glasgow-English  of  the  lowland  west,  the 
old  vernacular  still  holds  an  ancient  treas- 
ure. 

The  last  time  I  sailed  to  Staffa  from  Ulva, 
a  dead  calm  set  in,  and  we  took  a  man  from 
Gometra  to  help  with  an  oar — his  recom- 
mendation being  that  he  was  "  cho  laidir  ri 
Cuchullin,"  as  strong  as  Coohoolin.  But 
neither  in  lona  nor  in  the  northward  isles 
nor  in  Skye  itself,  have  I  found  or  heard 
of  much  concerning  the  great  Gaelic  hero. 
Fionn  and  Oisin  and  Diarmid  are  the  names 
oftenest  heard,  both  in  legend  and  proverbial 
allusion.  An  habitual  mistake  is  made  by 
writers  who  speak  of  the  famous  Cuchullin 
or  CuthuUin  mountains  in  Skye  as  having 
been  named  after  Cuchullin ;  and  though 
sometimes  the  local  guides  to  summer  tourists 
may  speak  of  the  Gaelic  hero  in  connection 
with  the  mountains  north  of  Coruisk,  that  is 
only  because  of  hearsay.  The  Gaelic  name 
should  never  be  rendered  as  the  CuthuUin  or 
Cohoolin  mountains,  but  as  the  Coolins.  The 
most  obvious  meaning  of  the  name  Ciiilfhion 
(Kyoolyun  or  Coolun),  is  "the  fine  corner," 
but,  as  has  been  suggested,  the  hills  may  have 
got  their  name  because  of  the  "  cuillionn 
mara "    or    sea-holly,    which    is    pronounced 

157 


lona 

Ku'  I'-unn  or  coolin.      This  is  most  probably 
the  origin  of  the  name. 

In  fine  weather  one  may  see  from  lona  the 
CooHns  standing  out  in  lovely  blue  against 
the  northern  sky-line,  their  contours  the  most 
beautiful  feature  in  a  view  of  surpassing 
beauty.  How  often  I  have  watched  them, 
how  often  dreamed  of  what  they  have  seen, 
since  Oisin  passed  that  way  with  Malvina: 
since  CuchuUin  learned  the  feats  of  war  at 
Dijn  Scaaiah,  from  that  great  queen  whose 
name,  it  is  said,  the  island  bears  in  remem- 
brance of  her;  since  Connlaoch,  his  son,  set 
sail  to  meet  so  tragic  a  death  in  Ireland. 
There  are  two  women  of  Gaelic  antiquity 
who  above  all  others  have  always  held  my 
imagination  as  with  a  spell :  Scathach  or 
Sgathaith  (sky-ah),  the  sombre  Amazonian 
queen  of  the  mountain-island  (then  per- 
haps, as  now,  known  also  as  the  Isle  of 
Mist),  and  Meave,  the  great  queen  of  Con- 
naught,  whose  name  has  its  mountain  bases 
in  gigantic  wars,  and  its  summits  among 
the  wild  poetry  and  romance  of  the 
Shea. 

My  earliest  knowledge  of  the  heroic  cycle 
of  Celtic  mythology  and  history  came  to  me, 
as  a  child,  when  I  spent  my  first  summer  in 
lona.     How  well  I  remember  a  fantastic  le- 

158 


lona 

gend  I  was  told:  how  that  these  far  blue 
mountains,  so  freaked  into  a  savage  beauty, 
were  due  to  the  sword-play  of  CuchuUin. 
And  this  happened  because  the  Queen  o'  Skye 
had  put  a  spear  through  the  two  breasts  of 
his  love,  so  that  he  went  in  among  her  war- 
rior women  and  slew  every  one,  and  severed 
the  head  of  Sgayah  herself,  and  threw  it  into 
Coruisk,  where  to  this  day  it  floats  as  Eilean 
Dubh,  the  dark  isle.  Thereafter,  Cuchullin 
hewed  the  mountain-tops  into  great  clefts, 
and  trampled  the  hills  into  a  craggy  wilder- 
ness, and  then  rushed  into  the  waves  and 
fought  with  the  sea-hordes  till  far  away  the 
bewildered  and  terrified  stallions  of  the  ocean 
dashed  upon  the  rocks  of  Man  and  uttermost 
shores  of  Erin. 

This  magnificent  mountain  range  can  be 
seen  better  still  from  Lunga  near  lona, 
whence  it  is  a  short  sail  with  a  southerly 
wind.  In  Lunga  there  is  a  hill  called  Cnoc 
Cruit  or  Dun  Cruit,  and  thence  one  may  see, 
as  in  a  vast  illuminated  missal  whose  pages 
are  of  deep  blue  with  bindings  of  azure  and 
pale  gold,  innumerable  green  isles  and  peaks 
and  hills  of  the  hue  of  the  wild  plum.  When 
last  I  was  there  it  was  a  day  of  cloudless 
June.  There  was  not  a  sound  but  the  hum 
of  the  wild  bee  foraging  in  the  long  garths  of 

159 


lona 

white  clover,  and  the  continual  sighing  of  a 
wave.  Listening,  I  thought  I  heard  a  harper 
playing  in  the  hollow  of  the  hill.  It  may  have 
been  the  bees  heavy  with  the  wine  of  honey, 
but  I  was  content  with  my  fancy  and  fell 
asleep,  and  dreamed  that  a  harper  came  out 
of  the  hill,  at  first  so  small  that  he  seemed  like 
the  green  stalk  of  a  lily  and  had  hands  like 
daisies,  and  then  so  great  that  I  saw  his 
breath  darkening  the  waves  far  out  on  the 
Hebrid  sea.  He  played,  till  I  saw  the  stars 
fall  in  a  ceaseless,  dazzling  rain  upon  lona.  A 
wind  blew  that  rain  away,  and  out  of  the 
wave  that  had  been  lona  I  saw  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  white  doves  rise  from  the 
foam  and  fly  down  the  four  great  highways 
of  the  wind.  When  I  woke,  there  was  no 
one  near.  lona  lay  like  an  emerald  un- 
der the  wild-plum  bloom  of  the  Mull  moun- 
tains. The  bees  stumbled  through  the  clover ; 
a  heron  stood  silver-grey  upon  a  grey-blue 
stone;  the  continual  wave  was,  as  before, 
as  one  wave,  and  with  the  same  hushed  sigh- 
ing. 

Two  or  three  years  ago  I  heard  a  boatman 

using  a  singular  phrase,  to  the  effect  that  a 

certain  deed  was  as  kindly  a  thought  as  that 

of   the   piper   who   played   to    St.    Micheil   in 

1 60 


liona 

his  grave.  I  had  never  heard  of  this  before, 
or  anything  Hke  it,  nor  have  I  since,  on  Up  or 
in  book.  He  told  me  that  he  spoke  of  a  wan- 
dering piper  known  as  Piobaire  Raonull  Dall, 
Blind  Piper  Ronald,  who  fifty  years  or  so 
ago  used  to  wander  through  the  isles  and 
West  Highlands ;  and  how  he  never  failed  to 
play  a  spring  on  his  pipes,  either  to  please  or 
to  console,  or  maybe  to  air  a  lament  for  what's 
lost  now  and  can't  come  again,  when  on  any 
holy  day  he  stood  before  a  figure  of  the  Vir- 
gin (as  he  might  well  do  in  Barra  or  South 
Uist),  or  by  old  tombs  or  habitations  of 
saints.  My  friend's  father  or  one  of  his  peo- 
ple, once,  in  the  Kyles  of  Bute,  when  sailing 
past  the  little  ruinous  graveyard  of  Kil- 
michael  on  the  Bute  shore,  had  come  upon 
Raonull-Dall,  pacing  slowly  before  the  bro- 
ken stones  and  the  little  cell  which  legend  says 
is  both  the  hermitage  and  the  grave  of  St. 
Micheil.  When  asked  what  he  was  playing 
and  what  for,  in  that  lonely  spot,  he  said  it 
was  an  old  ancient  pibroch,  the  Gathering  of 
the  Clerics,  which  he  was  playing  just  to 
cheer  the  heart  of  the  good  man  down  be- 
low. When  told  that  St.  Micheil  would  be 
having  his  fill  of  good  music  where  he  was, 
the  old  man  came  away  in  the  boat,  and  for 
long  sat  silent  and  strangely  disheartened.  I 
i6i 


lona 

have  more  than  once  since  then  sailed  to  that 
little  lonely  ancient  grave  of  Kilmichael  in 
the  Kyles  of  Bute,  from  Tignabruaich  or 
further  Cantyre,  and  have  wished  that  I  too 
could  play  a  spring  upon  the  pipes,  for  if  so 
I  would  play  to  the  kind  heart  of  "  Piobaire 
Raonull  Dall." 

Of  all  the  saints  of  the  west,  from  St.  Mo- 
lios  or  Molossius  (Maol-Iosa?  the  servant  by 
Jesus?)  who  has  left  his  name  in  the  chief 
township  in  Arran,  to  St.  Barr,  who  has 
given  his  to  the  largest  of  the  Bishop's  Isles, 
as  the  great  Barra  island-chain  in  the  South 
Hebrides  used  to  be  called,  there  is  none  so 
commonly  remembered  and  so  frequently  in- 
voked as  St.  Micheil.  There  used  to  be  no 
festival  in  the  Western  Isles  so  popular  as 
that  held  on  29th  September,  "  La'  Fheill 
Mhicheil,"  the  Day  of  the  Festival  of  Mich- 
ael ;  and  the  Eve  of  Michael's  Day  is  still  in 
a  few  places  one  of  the  gayest  nights  in  the 
year,  though  no  longer  is  every  barn  turned 
into  a  dancing  place  or  a  place  of  merry- 
making or,  at  least,  a  place  for  lovers  to 
meet  and  give  betrothal  gifts.  The  day  it- 
self, in  the  Catholic  Isles,  was  begun  with 
a  special  Mass,  and  from  hour  to  hour 
was  filled  with  traditional  duties  and  pleas- 
ures. 

162 


lona 

The  whole  of  the  St.  Micheil  ceremonies 
were  of  a  remote  origin,  and  some,  as  the 
ancient  and  ahnost  inexpHcable  dances,  and 
their  archaic  accompaniment  of  word  and 
gesture  far  older  than  the  sacrificial  slaying 
of  the  Michaelmas  Lamb.  It  is,  however, 
not  improbable  that  this  latter  rite  was  a  sur- 
vival of  a  pagan  custom  long  anterior  to  the 
substitution  of  the  Christian  for  the  Druidic 
faith. 

The  "  lollach  Mhicheil  "—the  triumphal 
song  of  Michael — is  quite  as  much  pagan  as 
Christian.  We  have  here,  indeed,  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  convincing  instances  of 
the  transmutation  of  a  personal  symbol.  St. 
Michael  is  on  the  surface  a  saint  of  extraor- 
dinary powers  and  the  patron  of  the  shores 
and  the  shore-folk :  deeper,  he  is  an  angel, 
who  is  upon  the  sea  what  the  angelical  saint, 
St.  George,  is  upon  the  land :  deeper,  he  is  a 
blending  of  the  Roman  Neptune  and  the 
Greek  Poseidon:  deeper,  he  is  himself  an  an- 
cient Celtic  god :  deeper,  he  is  no  other  than 
Manannan,  the  god  of  ocean  and  all  waters, 
in  the  Gaelic  Pantheon :  as,  once  more,  Ma- 
nannan himself  is  dimly  revealed  to  us  as  still 
more  ancient,  more  primitive,  and  even  as  su- 
preme in  remote  godhead,  the  Father  of  an 
immortal  Clan. 

163 


lona 

To  this  day  Micheil  is  sometimes  alluded  to 
as  the  god  Micheil,  and  I  have  seen  some 
very  strange  Gaelic  lines  which  run  in  effect : 

"It  was  well  thou  hadst  the  horse  of  the  god  Micheil 
Who  goes  without  a  bit  in  his  mouth, 
So  that  thou  couldst  ride  him  through  the  fields 

of  the  air, 
And  with  him  leap  over  the  knowledge  of  Na- 
ture ' ' — 

presumably  not  very  ancient  as  they  stand, 
because  of  the  use  of  "  steud  "  for  horse,  and 
"  naduir "  for  nature,  obvious  adaptations 
from  English  and  Latin.  Certainly  St.  Mich- 
ael has  left  his  name  in  many  places,  from  the 
shores  of  the  Hebrides  to  the  famous  Mont 
St.  Michel  of  Brittany,  and  I  doubt  not  that 
everywhere  an  earlier  folk,  at  the  same  places, 
called  him  Manannan.  In  a  most  unlikely 
place  to  find  a  record  of  old  hymns  and  folk- 
songs, one  of  the  volumes  of  Reports  of  the 
Highlands  and  Islands  Commission,  Mr.  Car- 
michael  many  years  ago  contributed  some  of 
his  unequalled  store  of  Hebridean  reminis- 
cence and  knowledge.  Among  these  old 
things  saved,  there  is  none  that  is  better 
worth  saving  than  the  beautiful  Catholic 
hymn  or  invocation  sung  at  the  time  of  the 
midsummer  migration  to  the  hill-pastures. 
In  this  shealing-hvmn  the  three  powers  who 
164 


lona 

are  invoked  are  St.  Micheil  (for  he  is  a  pa- 
tron saint  of  horses  and  travel,  as  well  as  of 
the  sea  and  seafarers),  St.  Columba,  guar- 
dian of  cattle,  and  the  Virgin  Mary, 
"  Mathair  Uain  ghil,"  "  Mother  of  the  White 
Lamb,"  as  the  tender  Gaelic  has  it,  who  is  so 
beautifully  called  the  golden-haired  Virgin 
Shepherdess. 

It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  Columba,  who 
loved  animals,  and  whose  care  for  his  shep- 
herd-people was  always  so  great,  as  having 
become  the  patron  saint  of  cattle.  It  is  thus 
that  the  gods  are  shaped  out  of  a  little  mortal 
clay,  the  great  desire  of  the  heart,  and  im- 
mortal dreams. 

I  may  give  the  whole  hymn  in  English,  as 
rendered  by  Mr.  Carmichael : 


'Thou  gentle  Michael  of  the  white  steed, 
Who  subdued  the  Dragon  of  blood, 
For  love  of  God  and  the  Son  of  Mary, 
Spread  over  us  thy  wing,  shield  us  all! 
Spread  over  us  thy  wing,  shield  us  all! 


'Mary  beloved!   Mother  of  the  White  Lamb, 
Protect  us,  thou  Virgin  of  nobleness, 
Queen  of  beauty!  Shepherdess  of  the  flocks! 
Keep  our  cattle,  su'-round  us  together, 
Keep  our  cattle,  surround  us  together. 

165 


lona 


'Thou  Columba,  the  friendly,  the  kind, 
In  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy 

Spirit, 
Through  the  Three-in-One,  through  the  Three, 
Encompass  us,  guard  our  procession. 
Encompass  us,  guard  our  procession. 


"Thou  Father!  Thou  Son!  Thou  Holy  Spirit! 
Be  the  Three-One  with  us  day  and  night, 
On  the  machair  plain,  on  the  mountain  ridge, 
The  Three-One  is  with  us,  with  His  arm  around 

our  head. 
The  Three-One  is  with  us,  with  His  arm  around 

our  head." 

I  have  heard  a  paraphrase  of  this  hymn, 
both  in  GaeHc  and  Enghsh,  on  lona ;  and 
once,  off  Soa,  a  Httle  island  to  the  south  of 
Icolmkill,  took  down  a  verse  which  I  thought 
was  local,  but  which  I  afterwards  found 
(with  very  slight  variance)  in  Mr.  Car- 
michael's  Governmental  Uist-Record.  It  was 
sung  by  Barra  fishermen,  and  ran  in  effect 
"  O  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost !  O  Holy 
Trinity,  be  with  us  day  and  night.  On  the 
crested  wave  as  on  the  mountain-side !  Our 
Mother,  Holy  Mary  Mother,  has  her  arm  un- 
der our  head ;  our  pillow  is  the  arm  of  Mary, 
Mary  the  Holy  Mother." 
i66 


lona 

It  is  perhaps  the  saddest  commentary  that 
could  be  made  on  what  we  have  lost  that  the 
children  of  those  who  were  wont  to  go  to 
rest,  or  upon  any  adventure,  or  to  stand  in 
the  shadow  of  death,  with  some  such  words  as 

"My  soul  is  with  the  Light  on  the  mountains, 
Archangel  Micheil  shield  my  soul ! ' ' 

now  go  or  stand  in  a  scornful  or  heedless  si- 
lence, or  without  remembrance,  as  others  did 
who  forgot  to  trim  their  lamps. 

Who  now  would  go  up  to  the  hill-pastures 
singing  the  Beannachadh  Buachailleag,  the 
Herding  Blessing?  With  the  passing  of  the 
old  language  the  old  solemnity  goes,  and  the 
old  beauty,  and  the  old  patient,  loving  won- 
der. I  do  not  like  to  think  of  what  songs  are 
likely  to  replace  the  Herding  Blessing,  whose 
first  verse  runs  thus: 

"I  place  this  flock  before  me 
As  was  ordained  by  the  King  of  the  World, 
Mary  Virgin  to  keep  them,  to  wait  them,  to  watch 
them. 
On  hill  and  glen  and  plain, 
On  hill,  in  glen,  on  plain." 

In  the  maelstrom  of  the  cities  the  old  race 

perishes,  drowns.     How  common  the  foolish 

utterance  of  narrow  lives,  that  all  these  old 

ways  of  thought  are  superstitious.     To  have 

167 


lona 

a  superstition  is,  for  these,  a  worse  ill  than 
to  have  a  shrunken  soul.  I  do  not  believe  in 
spells  and  charms  and  foolish  incantations, 
but  I  think  that  ancient  wisdom  out  of  the 
simple  and  primitive  heart  of  an  older  time  is 
not  an  ill  heritage ;  and  if  to  believe  in  the 
power  of  the  spirit  is  to  be  superstitious,  I  am 
well  content  to  be  of  the  company  that  is  now 
forsaken. 

But  even  in  what  may  more  fairly  be  called 
superstitious,  have  we  surety  that  we  have 
done  well  in  our  exchange? 

A  short  while  ago  I  was  on  the  hillside 
above  one  of  the  much-frequented  lochs  in 
eastern  Argyll.  Something  brought  to  my 
mind,  as  I  went  farther  up  into  the  clean  soli- 
tudes, one  of  the  verses  of  the  Herding  Bless- 


"From  rocks,  from  snow-wreaths,  from  streams, 
From  crooked  ways,  from  destructive  pits, 
From  the  arrows  of  the  sUm  fairy  women, 
From  the  heart  of  envy,  the  eye  of  evil. 
Keep  us,  Holy  St.  Bride." 

"  From  the  arrows  of  the  slim  fairy  women." 
And  I — do  I  believe  in  that?  At  least  it  will 
be  admitted  that  it  is  worth  a  belief ;  it  is  a 
pleasant  dream ;  it  is  a  gate  into  a  lovely 
world;  it  is  a  secret  garden,  where  are  old 
168 


lona 

sweet  echoes ;  it  has  the  rainbow-Hght  of 
poetry.  Is  it  not  poetry?  And  I — oh  yes, 
I  believe  it,  that  superstition :  a  thousand-fold 
more  real  is  it,  more  believable,  than  that 
coarse-tongued,  ill-mannered,  boorish  people, 
desperate  in  slovenly  pleasure.  For  that  will 
stay,  and  they  will  go.  And  if  I  am  wrong, 
then  I  will  rather  go  with  it  than  stay  with 
them.  And  yet — surely,  surely  the  day  will 
come  when  this  sordidness  of  life  as  it  is  so 
often  revealed  to  us  will  sink  into  deep  wa- 
ters, and  the  stream  become  purified,  and 
again  by  its  banks  be  seen  the  slim  fairy 
women  of  health  and  beauty  and  all  noble 
and  dignified  things. 

This  is  a  far  cry  from  lona !  And  I  had 
meant  to  write  only  of  how  I  heard  so  re- 
cently as  three  or  four  summers  ago  a  verse 
of  the  Uist  Herding  Chant.  It  was  recited  to 
me,  overagainst  Dijn-I,  by  a  friend  who  is  a 
crofter  in  that  part  of  lona.  It  was  not  quite 
as  Mr.  Carmichael  translates  it,  but  near 
enough.  The  Rann  Buachhailleag  is,  I  should 
add,  addressed  to  the  cattle. 

"The  protection  of  God  and  Columba 
Encompass  your  going  and  coming, 
And  about  you  be  the  milkmaid  of  the  smooth 

white  palms, 
Briget  of  the  clustering  hair,  golden  brown." 

169 


lona 

On  lona,  however,  there  is.  so  far  as  I  re- 
member, no  special  spot  sacred  to  St.  Micheil : 
but  there  is  a  legend  that  on  the  night  Co- 
lumba  died  Micheil  came  over  the  waves  on 
a  rippling  flood  of  light,  which  was  a  cloud  of 
angelic  wings,  and  that  he  sang  a  hymn  to 
the  soul  of  the  saint  before  it  took  flight  for 
its  heavenly  fatherland.  No  one  heard  that 
hymn  save  Colum,  but  I  think  that  he  who 
first  spoke  of  it  remembered  a  more  ancient 
legend  of  how  Manannan  came  to  Cuchullin 
when  he  was  in  the  country  of  the  Shee,  when 
Liban  laughed. 

I  spoke  of  Port-a-Churaich,  the  Haven  of 
the  Coracle,  a  little  ago.  How  strange  a  his- 
tory is  that  of  lona  since  the  coming  of  the 
Irish  priest,  Crimthan,  or  Crimmon  as  we  call 
the  name,  surnamed  Colum  Cille,  the  Dove 
of  the  Church.  Perhaps  its  unwritten  his- 
tory is  not  less  strange.  God  was  revered  on 
lona  by  priests  of  a  forgotten  faith  before 
the  Cross  was  raised.  The  sun-priest  and  the 
moon-worshipper  had  their  revelation  here. 
I  do  not  think  their  offerings  were  despised. 
Colum,  who  loved  the  Trinity  so  well  that  on 
one  occasion  he  subsisted  for  three  days  on 
the  mystery  of  the  mere  word,  did  not  fore- 
go the  luxury  of  human  sacrifice,  though  he 
170 


lona 

abhorred  the  blood-stained  altar.  For,  to 
him,  an  obstinate  pagan  slain  was  to  the 
glory  of  God.  The  moon-worshipper  did  no 
worse  when  he  led  the  chosen  victim  to  the 
dolmen.  But  the  moon-worshipper  was  a 
Pict  without  the  marvel  of  the  written  word ; 
so  he  remained  a  heathen,  and  the  Christian 
named  himself  saint  or  martyr. 

None  knows  with  surety  who  dwelled  on 
this  mysterious  island  before  the  famous  son 
of  Feilim  of  Clan  Domnhuil,  great-grandson 
of  Neil  of  the  Nine  Hostages,  came  with  his 
fellow-monks  and  raised  the  Cross  among  the 
wondering  Picts.  But  the  furthest  record 
tells  of  worship.  Legend  itself  is  more  an- 
cient here  than  elsewhere.  Once  a  woman 
was  worshipped.  Some  say  she  was  the  moon, 
but  this  was  before  the  dim  day  of  the  moon- 
worshippers.  (In  Gaelic  too,  as  with  all  the 
Celtic  peoples,  it  is  not  the  moon  but  the  sun 
that  is  feminine.)  She  may  have  been  an 
ancestral  Brighde,  or  that  mysterious  Anait 
whose  Scythian  name  survives  elsewhere  in 
the  Gaelic  west,  and  nothing  else  of  all  her 
ancient  glory  but  that  shadowy  word.  Per- 
haps, here,  the  Celts  remembered  one  whom 
they  had  heard  of  in  Asian  valleys  or  by  the 
waters  of  Nilus,  and  called  upon  Isis  under  a 
new  name. 

171 


lona 

The  Haven  of  the  Coracle!  It  was  not 
Colum  and  his  white-robe  company  who  first 
made  the  isle  sacred.  I  have  heard  that  when 
Mary  Macleod  (our  best-loved  Hebridean 
poet)  was  asked  what  she  thought  of  lona. 
she  replied  that  she  thought  it  was  the  one  bit 
of  Eden  that  had  not  been  destroyed,  and  that 
it  was  none  other  than  the  central  isle  in  the 
Garden  untouched  of  Eve  or  Adam,  where 
the  angels  waited. 

Many  others  have  dreamed  by  that  lonely 
cairn  of  the  Irish  king,  before  Colum,  and, 
doubtless,  many  since  the  child  who  sought 
the  Divine  forges. 

Years  afterwards  I  wrote,  in  the  same 
place,  after  an  absence  wherein  lona  had  be- 
come as  a  dream  to  me,  the  story  of  St. 
Briget,  in  the  Hebrides  called  Bride,  under 
the  love-name  commonly  given  her,  Muime 
Chriosd  —  Christ's  Foster-Mother.  May  I 
quote  again,  here,  as  so  apposite  to  what  I 
have  written,  to  what  indirectly  I  am  trying 
to  convey  of  the  spiritual  history  of  lona, 
some  portion  of  it? 

In  my  legendary  story  I  tell  of  how  one 

called  Dughall,  of  a  kingly  line,  sailing  from 

Ireland,  came  to  be  cast  upon  the  ocean-shore 

of  lona,  then  called  Innis-nan-Dhruidhneach, 

172 


I  on  a 

the  Isle  of  the  Druids — for  this  was  before 
the  cry  of  the  Sacred  Wolf  was  heard,  as  an 
old-time  island-poet  has  it,  playing  upon 
Colum's  house-name,  Crimthan,  signifying  a 
wolf.  The  frail  coracle  in  which  he  and 
others  had  crossed  the  Moyle  had  been  driven 
before  a  tempest,  and  cast  at  sunrise  like  a 
spent  fish  upon  the  rocks  of  the  little  haven 
that  is  now  called  Port-a-Churaich.  All  had 
found  death  in  the  wave  except  himself  and 
the  little  girl-child  he  had  brought  with  him 
from  Ireland,  the  child  of  so  much  tragic 
mystery. 

When,  warmed  by  the  sun,  they  rose,  they 
found  themselves  in  a  waste  place.  Dughall 
was  ill  in  his  mind  because  of  the  portents, 
and  now  to  his  fear  and  amaze  the  child 
Briget  knelt  on  the  stones,  and,  with  claspt 
hands,  frail  and  pink  as  the  sea-shells  round 
about  her,  sang  a  song  of  words  which  were 
unknown  to  him.  This  was  the  more  marvel- 
lous, as  she  was  yet  but  an  infant,  and  could 
say  few  words  even  of  Erse,  the  only  tongue 
she  had  heard. 

At  this  portent,  he  knew  that  Aodh  the 
Arch-Druid  had  spoken  seeingly.  Truly  this 
child  was  not  of  human  parentage.  So  he, 
too,  kneeled;  and,  bowing  before  her,  asked 
if   she   were  of  the  race  of   the  Tuatha  de 

173 


lona 

Danann,  or  of  the  older  gods,  and  what  her 
will  was,  that  he  might  be  her  servant.  Then 
it  was  that  the  kneeling  child  looked  at  him, 
and  sang  in  a  low  sweet  voice  in  Erse: 

"I  am  but  a  little  child, 
Dughall,  son  of  Hugh,  son  of  Art, 
But  my  garment  shall  be   laid 
On  the  lord  of  the  world. 
Yea,  surely  it  shall  be  that  He, 
The  King  of  Elements  Himself 
Shall  lean  against  my  bosom, 
And  I  will  give  him  peace, 
And  peace  will  I  give  to  all  who  ask 
Because  of  this  mighty  Prince, 
And  because  of  his  Mother  that  is  the  Daughter 
of  Peace." 

And  while  Dughall  Donn  was  still  marvel- 
ling at  this  thing,  the  Arch-Druid  of  lona 
approached,  with  his  white-robed  priests.  A 
grave  welcome  was  given  to  the  stranger. 
While  the  youngest  of  the  servants  of  God 
was  entrusted  with  the  child,  the  Arch-Druid 
took  Dijghall  aside  and  questioned  him.  It 
was  not  till  the  third  day  that  the  old  man 
gave  his  decision.  Dughall  Donn  was  to 
abide  on  lona  if  he  so  willed ;  but  the  child 
was  to  stay.  His  life  would  be  spared,  nor 
would  he  be  a  bondager  of  any  kind,  and  a 
little  land  to  till  would  be  given  him,  and  all 

174 


lona 

that  he  might  need.  But  of  his  past  he  was 
to  say  no  word.  His  name  was  to  become  as 
nought,  and  he  was  to  be  known  simply  as 
Duvach.  The  child,  too,  was  to  be  named 
Bride,  for  that  was  the  way  the  name  Briget 
is  called  in  the  Erse  of  the  Isles. 

To  the  question  of  Dughall,  that  was 
thenceforth  Duvach,  as  to  why  he  laid  so 
great  stress  on  the  child,  who  was  a  girl,  and 
the  reputed  offspring  of  shame  at  that,  Cathal 
the  Arch-Druid  replied  thus :  "  My  kinsman 
Aodh  of  the  golden  hair,  who  sent  you  here, 
was  wiser  than  Hugh  the  king,  and  all  the 
Druids  of  Aoimag.  Truly,  this  child  iS'  an  Im- 
mortal. There  is  an  ancient  prophecy  concern- 
ing her:  surely  of  her  who  is  now  here,  and 
no  other.  There  shall  be,  it  says,  a  spotless 
maid  born  of  a  virgin  of  the  ancient  divine  race 
in  Innisfail.  And  when  for  the  seventh  time 
the  sacred  year  has  come,  she  will  hold  Eter- 
nity in  her  lap  as  a  white  flower.  Her  maiden 
breasts  shall  swell  with  milk  for  the  Prince  of 
the  World.  She  shall  give  suck  to  the  King 
of  the  Elements.  So  I  say  unto  you,  Duvach, 
go  in  peace.  Take  unto  yourself  a  wife,  and 
live  upon  the  place  I  will  allot  on  the  east 
side  of  loua.  Treat  Bride  as  though  she  were 
your  soul,  and  leave  her  much  alone,  and  let 
her  learn  of  the  sun  and  the  wind.     In  the 

175 


lona 

fulness  of  time  the  prophecy  shall  be  ful- 
filled." 

So  was  it,  from  that  day  of  the  days.  Du- 
vach  took  a  wife  unto  himself,  who  weaned 
the  little  Bride,  who  grew  in  beauty  and  grace, 
so  that  all  men  marvelled.  Year  by  year  for 
seven  years  the  wife  of  Duvach  bore  him  a 
son,  and  these  grew  apace  in  strength,  so  that 
by  the  beginning  of  the  third  year  of  the 
seventh  circle  of  Bride's  life  there  were  three 
stalwart  youths  to  brother  her,  and  three 
comely  and  strong  lads,  and  one  young  boy 
fair  to  see.  Nor  did  any  one,  not  even  Bride 
herself,  saving  Cathal  the  Arch-Druid,  know 
that  Duvach  the  herdsman  was  Dughall  Donn, 
of  a  princely  race  in  Innisfail. 

In  the  end,  too,  Duvach  came  to  think  that 
he  had  dreamed,  or  at  the  least  that  Cathal 
had  not  interpreted  the  prophecy  aright.  For 
though  Bride  was  of  exceeding  beauty,  and 
of  a  holiness  that  made  the  young  druids  bow 
before  her  as  though  she  were  a  bandia,  yet 
the  world  went  on  as  before,  and  the  days 
brought  no  change.  Often,  while  she  was 
still  a  child,  he  had  questioned  her  about  the 
words  she  had  said  as  a  babe,  but  she  had  no 
memory  of  them.  Once,  in  her  ninth  year, 
he  came  upon  her  on  the  hillside  of  Diin-I 
singing  these  self-same  words.  Her  eyes 
176 


lona 

dreamed  far  away.  He  bowed  his  head,  and, 
praying  to  the  Giver  of  Light,  hurried  to 
Cathal.  The  old  man  bade  him  speak  no 
more  to  the  child  concerning  the  mysteries. 

Bride  lived  the  hours  of  her  days  upon  the 
slopes  of  Diin-I,  herding  the  sheep,  or  in  fol- 
lowing the  kye  upon  the  green  hillocks  and 
grassy  dunes  of  what  then,  as  now,  was  called 
the  Machar.  The  beauty  of  the  world  was 
her  daily  food.  The  spirit  within  her  was 
like  sunlight  behind  a  white  flower.  The 
birdeens  in  the  green  bushes  sang  for  joy 
when  they  saw  her  blue  eyes.  The  tender 
prayers  that  were  in  her  heart  were  often  seen 
flying  above  her  head  in  the  form  of  white 
doves  of  sunshine 

But  when  the  middie  of  the  year  came  that 
was  (though  Duvach  had  forgotten  it)  the 
year  of  the  prophecy,  his  eldest  son,  Conn,  who 
was  now  a  man,  murmured  against  the  vir- 
ginity of  Bride,  because  of  her  beauty  and 
because  a  chieftain  of  the  mainland  was  eager 
to  wed  her.  "  I  shall  wed  Bride  or  raid 
loua,"  was  the  message  he  had  sent. 

So  one  day,  before  the  Great  Fire  of  the 
Summer  Festival,  Conn  and  his  brothers  re- 
proached Bride. 

"  Idle  are  these  pure  eyes,  O  Bride,  not  to 
be  as  lamps  at  thy  marriage-bed." 
177 


lona 

"  Truly,  it  is  not  by  the  eyes  that  we  live," 
replied  the  maiden  gently,  while  to  their 
fear  and  amazement  she  passed  her  hand  be- 
fore her  face  and  let  them  see  that  the  sockets 
were  empty. 

Trembling  with  awe  at  this  portent,  Du- 
vach  intervened : 

"  By  the  sun  I  swear  it,  O  Bride,  that  thou 
shalt  marry  whomsoever  thou  wilt  and  none 
other,  and  when  thou  wilt,  or  not  at  all,  if 
such  be  thy  will." 

And  when  he  had  spoken.  Bride  smiled, 
and  passed  her  hand  before  her  face  again, 
and  all  there  were  abashed  because  of  the 
blue  light  as  of  morning  that  was  in  her 
shining  eyes. 

It  was  while  the  dew  was  yet  wet  on  the 
grass  that  on  the  morrow  Bride  came  out  of 
her  father's  house,  and  went  up  the  steep  slope 
of  Diin-I.  The  crying  of  the  ewes  and 
lambs  at  the  pastures  came  plaintively  against 
the  dawn.  The  lowing  of  the  kye  arose  from 
the  sandy  hollows  by  the  shore,  or  from  the 
meadows  on  the  lower  slopes.  Through  the 
whole  island  went  a  rapid,  trickling  sound, 
most  sweet  to  hear:  the  myriad  voices  of 
twittering  birds,  from  the  dotterel  in  the  sea- 
weed, to  the  larks  climbing  the  blue  slopes  of 
heaven. 

178 


lona 

This  was  the  festival  of  her  birth,  and  she 
was  clad  in  white.  About  her  waist  was  a 
girdle  of  the  sacred  rowan,  the  feathery 
green  leaves  flickering  dusky  shadows  upon 
her  robe  as  she  moved.  The  light  upon  her 
yellow  hair  was  as  when  morning  wakes, 
laughing  in  wind  amid  the  tall  corn.  As  she 
went  she  sang  to  herself,  softly  as  the  croon- 
ing of  a  dove.  If  any  had  been  there  to  hear 
he  would  have  been  abashed,  for  the  words 
were  not  in  Erse,  and  the  eyes  of  the  beauti- 
ful girl  were  as  those  of  one  in  a  vision. 

When,  at  last,  a  brief  while  before  sunrise, 
she  reached  the  summit  of  the  Scuir,  that  is  so 
small  a  hill  and  yet  seems  so  big  in  lona, 
where  it  is  the  sole  peak,  she  found  three 
young  druids  there,  ready  to  tend  the  sacred 
fire  the  moment  the  sunrays  should  kindle  it. 
Each  was  clad  in  a  white  robe,  with  fillets  of 
oak  leaves ;  and  each  had  a  golden  armlet. 
They  made  a  quiet  obeisance  as  she  ap- 
proached. One  stepped  forward,  with  a  flush 
in  his  face  because  of  her  beauty,  that  was  as 
a  sea-wave  for  grace  and  a  flower  for  purity, 
as  sunlight  for  joy  and  moonlight  for  peace. 

"  Thou    mayst    draw    near    if    thou    wilt, 

Bride,   daughter   of   Duvach,"   he   said,   with 

something  of   reverence  as   well   as  of  grave 

courtesy  in  his  voice;  "  for  the  holy  Cathal 

179 


lona 

hath  said  that  the  breath  of  the  Source  of  All 
is  upon  thee.  It  is  not  lawful  for  women  to 
be  here  at  this  moment,  but  thou  hast  the  law 
shining  upon  thy  face  and  in  thine  eyes. 
Hast  thou  come  to  pray  ?  " 

But  at  that  moment  a  cry  came  from  one  of 
his  companions.  He  turned,  and  rejoined  his 
fellows.  Then  all  three  sank  upon  their 
knees,  and  with  outstretched  arms  hailed  the 
rising  of  God. 

As  the  sun  rose,  a  solemn  chant  swelled 
from  their  lips,  ascending  as  incense  through 
the  silent  air.  The  glory  of  the  new  day 
came  soundlessly.  Peace  was  in  the  blue 
heaven,  on  the  blue-green  sea,  and  on  the 
green  land.  There  was  no  wind,  even  where 
the  currents  of  the  deep  moved  in  shadowy 
purple.  The  sea  itself  was  silent,  making  no 
more  than  a  sighing  slumber-breath  round 
the  white  sands  of  the  isle,  or  a  dull  whisper 
where  the  tide  lifted  the  long  weed  that  clung 
to  the  rocks. 

In  what  strange,  mysterious  way.  Bride  did 
not  see;  but  as  the  three  druids  held  their 
hands  before  the  sacred  fire  there  was  a  faint 
crackling,  then  three  thin  spirals  of  blue 
smoke  rose,  and  soon  dusky  red  and  wan  yel- 
low tongues  of  flame  moved  to  and  fro.  The 
sacrifice  of  God  was  made.  Out  of  the  im- 
i8o 


I 


lona 

measurable  heaven  He  had  come,  in  his 
golden  chariot.  Now,  in  the  wonder  and 
mystery  of  His  love,  He  was  re-born  upon  the 
world,  re-born  a  little  fugitive  flame  upon  a 
low  hill  in  a  remote  isle.  Great  must  be  His 
love  that  he  could  die  thus  daily  in  a  thou- 
sand places :  so  great  His  love  that  he  could 
give  up  His  own  body  to  daily  death,  and 
suffer  the  holy  flame  that  was  in  the  embers 
He  illumined  to  be  lighted  and  revered  and 
then  scattered  to  the  four  quarters  of  the 
world. 

Bride  could  bear  no  longer  the  mystery  of 
this  great  love.  It  moved  her  to  an  ecstasy. 
What  tenderness  of  divine  love  that  could 
thus  redeem  the  world  daily:  what  long-suf- 
fering for  all  the  evil  and  cruelty  done  hourly 
upon  the  weeping  earth :  what  patience  with 
the  bitterness  of  the  blind  fates !  The  beauty 
of  the  worship  of  Be'al  was  upon  her  as  a 
golden  glory.  Her  heart  leaped  to  a  song  that 
could  not  be  sung. 

Bowing  her  head,  so  that  the  tears  fell  upon 
her  hands,  she  rose  and  moved  away. 

Elsewhere  I  have  told  how  a  good  man  of 
lona  sailed  along  the  coast  one  Sabbath  after- 
noon with  the  Holy  Book,  and  put  the  Word 
upon  the  seals  of  Soa :  and,  in  another  tale, 
i8i 


lona 

how  a  lonely  man  fought  with  a  sea-woman, 
that  was  a  seal ;  as,  again,  how  two  fishermen 
strove  with  the  sea-witch  of  Earraid :  and,  in 
"  The  Dan-nan-Ron,"  of  a  man  who  went 
mad  with  the  sea-madness,  because  of  the 
seal-blood  that  was  in  his  veins,  he  being  a 
MacOdrum  of  Uist,  and  one  of  the  Sliochd 
nan  Ron,  the  Tribe  of  the  Seal.  And  those 
who  have  read  the  tale,  twice  printed,  once  as 
"  The  Annir  Choille,"  and  again  as  "  Cathal 
of  the  Woods,"  will  remember  how,  at  the 
end,  the  good  hermit  Molios,  when  near 
death  in  his  sea-cave  of  Arran,  called  the 
seals  to  come  out  of  the  wave  and  listen  to 
him,  so  that  he  might  tell  them  the  white 
story  of  Christ;  and  how  in  the  moonshine, 
with  the  flowing  tide  stealing  from  his  feet  to 
his  knees,  the  old  saint  preached  the  gospel  of 
love,  while  the  seals  crouched  upon  the  rocks, 
with  their  brown  eyes  filled  with  glad  tears : 
and  how,  before  his  death  at  dawn,  he  was 
comforted  by  hearing  them  splashing  to  and 
fro  in  the  moon-dazzle,  and  calling  one  to  the 
other,  "  We,  too,  are  of  the  sons  of  God." 

What  has  so  often  been  written  about  is  a 
reflection  of  what  is  in  the  mind :  and  though 
stories  of  the  seals  may  be  heard  from  the 
Rhinns  of  Islay  to  the  Seven  Hunters  (and  I 
first  heard  that  of  the  MacOdrums,  the  seal- 
182 


lona 

folk,  from  a  Uist  man),  I  think  that  it  was 
because  of  what  I  heard  of  the  sea-people  on 
lona,  when  I  was  a  child,  that  they  have  been 
so  much  with  me  in  remembrance. 

In  the  short  tale  of  the  Moon-child,  I  told 
how  two  seals  that  had  been  wronged  by  a 
curse  which  had  been  put  upon  them  by  Co- 
lumba,  forgave  the  saint,  and  gave  him  a  sore- 
won  peace.  I  recall  another  (unpublished) 
tale,  where  a  seal  called  Domnhuil  Dhu — a 
name  of  evil  omen — was  heard  laughing  one 
Hallowe'en  on  the  rocks  below  the  ruined  ab- 
bey, and  calling  to  the  creatures  of  the  sea 
that  God  was  dead :  and  how  the  man  who 
heard  him  laughed,  and  was  therewith 
stricken  with  paralysis,  and  so  fell  sidelong 
from  the  rocks  into  the  deep  wave,  and  was 
afterwards  found  beaten  as  with  hammers 
and  shredded  as  with  sharp  fangs. 

But,  as  most  characteristic,  I  would  rather 
tell  here  the  story  of  Black  Angus,  though 
the  longer  tale  of  which  it  forms  a  part  has 
been  printed  before. 

One  night,  a  dark  rainy  night  it  was,  with 
an  uplift  wind  battering  as  with  the  palms  of 
savage  hands  the  heavy  clouds  that  hid '  the 
moon,  I  went  to  the  cottage  near  Spanish 
Port,  where  my  friend  Ivor  Maclean  lived 
with   his   old    deaf    mother.     He   had    reluc- 

183 


lona 

tantly  promised  to  tell  me  the  legend  of  Black 
Angus,  a  request  he  had  ignored  in  a  sullen 
silence  when  he  and  Padruic  Macrae  and  I 
were  on  the  Sound  that  day.  No  tales  of  the 
kind  should  be  told  upon  the  water. 

When  I  entered,  he  was  sitting  before  the 
flaming  coal-fire ;  for  on  lona  now,  by  decree 
of  MacCailein  Mor,  there  is  no  more  peat 
burned. 

''You  will  tell  me  now,  Ivor?"  was  all  I 
said. 

"  Yes ;  I  will  be  telling  you  now.  And  the 
reason  why  I  did  not  tell  you  before  was  be- 
cause it  is  not  a  wise  or  a  good  thing  to  tell 
ancient  stories  about  the  sea  while  still  on  the 
running  wave.  Macrae  should  not  have  done 
that  thing.  It  may  be  we  shall  suffer  for  it 
when  next  we  go  out  with  the  nets.  We  were 
to  go  to-night ;  but,  no,  not  I,  no,  no,  for  sure, 
not  for  all  the  herring  in  the  Sound." 

"  Is  it  an  ancient  sgeul,  Ivor?  " 

"  Ay.  I  am  not  for  knowing  the  age  of 
these  things.  It  may  be  as  old  as  the  days  of 
the  Feinn,  for  all  I  know.  It  has  come 
down  to  us.  Alasdair  MacAlasdair  of  Tiree, 
him  that  used  to  boast  of  having  all  the 
stories  of  Colum  and  Brigdhe,  it  was  he 
told  it  to  the  mother  of  my  mother,  and  she 
to  me." 

184 


lona 

"What  is  it  called?" 

"Well,  this  and  that;  but  there  is  no 
harm  in  saying  it  is  called  the  Dark  Name- 
less One." 

"  The  Dark  Nameless  One !  " 

"  It  is  this  way.  But  will  you  ever  have 
heard  of  the  MacOdrums  of  Uist?" 

"  Ay ;  the  Sliochd-nan-ron." 

"  That  is  so.  God  knows.  The  Sliochd- 
nan-ron  .  .  .  the  progeny  of  the  Seal.  .  .  . 
Well,  well,  no  man  knows  what  moves  in  the 
shadow  of  life.  And  now  I  will  be  telling 
you  that  old  ancient  tale,  as  it  was  given  to  me 
by  the  mother  of  my  mother." 

On  a  day  of  the  days,  Colum  was  walking 
alone  by  the  sea-shore.  The  monks  were  at 
the  hoe  or  the  spade,  and  some  milking  the 
kye,  and  some  at  the  fishing.  They  say  it 
was  on  the  first  day  of  the  Faoilleach  Gcamh- 
raidh,  the  day  that  is  called  Am  Fhcill 
Brighde,  and  that  they  call  Candlemas  over 
yonder. 

The  holy  man  had  wandered  on  to  where 
the  rocks  are,  opposite  to  Soa.  He  was  pray- 
ing and  praying;  and  it  is  said  that  whenever 
he  prayed  aloud,  the  barren  egg  in  the  nest 
would  quicken,  and  the  blighted  bud  unfold, 
and  the  butterfly  break  its  shroud. 

185 


lona 

Of  a  sudden  he  came  upon  a  great  black 
seal,  lying  silent  on  the  rocks,  with  wicked 
eyes. 

"  My  blessing  upon  you,  O  Ron,"  he  said, 
with  the  good  kind  courteousness  that  was 
his.  "  Droch  spodadh  ort,"  answered  the 
seal,  "  A  bad  end  to  you,  Colum  of  the 
Gown." 

"  Sure  now,"  said  Colum  angrily,  "  I  am 
knowing  by  that  curse  that  you  are  no  friend 
of  Christ,  but  of  the  evil  pagan  faith  out  of 
the  north.  For  here  I  am  known  ever  as 
Colum  the  White,  or  as  Colum  the  Saint ;  and 
it  is  only  the  Picts  and  the  wanton  Normen 
who  deride  me  because  of  the  holy  white  robe 
I  wear." 

"  Well,  well,"  replied  the  seal,  speaking 
the  good  Gaelic  as  though  it  were  the  tongue 
of  the  deep  sea,  as  God  knows  it  may  be  for 
all  you,  I,  or  the  blind  wind  can  say ;  "  well, 
well,  let  that  thing  be:  it's  a  wave-way  here 
or  a  wave-way  there.  But  now,  if  it  is  a 
druid  you  are,  whether  of  fire  or  of  Christ,  be 
telling  me  where  my  woman  is,  and  where  my 
little  daughter." 

At  this,  Colum  looked  at  him  for  a  long 
while.     Then  he  knew. 

"  It  is  a  man  you  were  once,  O  Ron  ?  " 

"  Maybe  ay  and  maybe  no." 
i86 


Tona 

"And  with  that  thick  GaeUc  that  you 
have,  it  will  be  out  of  the  north  isles  you 
come  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  true  thing." 

"  Now  I  am  for  knowing  at  last  who  and 
what  you  are.  You  are  one  of  the  race  of 
Odrum  the  Pagan?" 

"  Well,  I  am  not  denying  it,  Colum.  And 
what  is  more,  I  am  Angus  MacOdrum, 
Aonghas  mac  Torcall  mhic  Odrum,  and  the 
name  I  am  known  by  is  Black  Angus." 

"  A  fitting  name  too,"  said  Colum  the 
Holy,  "  because  of  the  black  sin  in  your 
heart,  and  the  black  end  God  has  in  store  for 
you." 

At  that  Black  Angus  laughed. 

"  Why  is  the  laughter  upon  you,  Man- 
Seal?" 

"  Well,  it  is  because  of  the  good  company 
I'll  be  having.  But,  now,  give  me  the  word: 
Are  you  for  having  seen  or  heard  of  a  woman 
called  Kirsteen  M'Vurich?" 

"  Kirsteen — Kirsteen — that  is  the  good 
name  of  a  nun  it  is,  and  no  sea-wanton !  " 

"  Oh,  a  name  here  or  a  name  there  is  soft 
sand.  And  so  you  cannot  be  for  telling  me 
where  my  woman  is  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  a  stake  for  your  belly,  and  nails 
187 


lona 

through  your  hands,  thirst  on  your  tongue, 
and  the  corbies  at  your  eyne !  " 

And,  with  that.  Black  Angus  louped  into 
the  green  water,  and  the  hoarse  wild  laugh  of 
him  sprang  into  the  air  and  fell  dead  upon  the 
shore  like  a  wind-spent  mew. 

Colum  went  slowly  back  to  the  brethren, 
brooding  deep.  "  God  is  good,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  again  and  again ;  and  each  time 
that  he  spoke  there  came  a  daisy  into  the 
grass,  or  a  bird  rose,  with  song  to  it  for  the 
first  time,  wonderful  and  sweet  to  hear. 

As  he  drew  near  to  the  House  of  God  he 
met  Murtagh,  an  old  monk  of  the  ancient 
race  of  the  isles. 

"Who  is  Kirsteen  M'Vurich,  Murtagh?" 
he  asked. 

"  She  was  a  good  servant  of  Christ,  she 
was,  in  the  south  isles,  O  Colum,  till  Black 
Angus  won  her  to  the  sea." 

"And  when  was  that?" 

"  Nigh  upon  a  thousand  years  ago." 

"  But  can  mortal  sin  live  as  long  as  that?  " 

"  Ay,  it  endureth.  Long,  long  ago,  before 
Oisin  sang,  before  Fionn,  before  Cuchullin 
was  a  glorious  great  prince,  and  in  the  days 
when  the  Tuatha-de-Danann  were  sole  lords 
in  all  green  Banba,  Black  Angus  made  the 
woman  Kirsteen  M'Vurich  leave  the  place  of 
1 88 


lona 

prayer  and  go  down  to  the  sea-shore,  and 
there  he  leaped  upon  her  and  made  her  his 
prey,  and  she  followed  him  into  the  sea." 

"And  is  death  above  her  now?" 

"  No.  She  is  the  woman  that  weaves  the 
sea-spells  at  the  wild  place  out  yonder  that  is 
known  as  Earraid:  she  that  is  called  the  sea- 
witch." 

"  Then  why  was  Black  Angus  for  the  seek- 
ing her  here  and  the  seeking  her  there  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  Doom.  It  is  Adam's  first  wife 
she  is,  that  sea-witch  over  there,  where  the 
foam  is  ever  in  the  sharp  fangs  of  the  rocks." 

"  And  who  will  he  be?  " 

"  His  body  is  the  body  of  Angus,  the  son 
of  Torcall  of  the  race  of  Odrum,  for  all  that 
a  seal  he  is  to  the  seeming;  but  the  soul  of 
him  is  Judas." 

"  Black  Judas,  Murtagh  ?  " 

*'  Ay,  Black  Judas,  Colum." 

But  with  that,  Ivor  Macrae  rose  abruptly 
from  before  the  fire,  saying  that  he  would 
speak  no  more  that  night.  And  truly  enough 
there  was  a  wild,  lone,  desolate  cry  in  the 
wind,  and  a  slapping  of  the  waves  one  upon 
the  other  with  an  eerie  laughing  sound,  and 
the  screaming  of  a  seamew  that  was  like  a 
human  thing. 

189 


lona 

So  I  touched  the  shawl  of  his  mother,  who 
looked  up  with  startled  eyes  and  said,  "  God 
be  with  us  " ;  and  then  I  opened  the  door,  and 
the  salt  smell  of  the  wrack  was  in  my  nostrils, 
and  the  great  drowning  blackness  of  the  night. 

When  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  throw  offer- 
ings— small  coins,  flowers,  shells,  even  a 
newly  caught  trout,  once  a  treasured  flint 
arrow-head — into  the  sea-loch  by  which  we 
lived.  My  Hebridean  nurse  had  often  told 
me  of  Shony,  a  mysterious  sea-god,  and  I 
know  I  spent  much  time  in  wasted  adoration: 
a  fearful  worship,  not  unmixed  with  disap- 
pointment and  some  anger.  Not  once  did  I 
see  him.  I  was  frighted  time  after  time, 
but  the  sudden  cry  of  a  heron,  or  the  snort  of 
a  pollack  chasing  the  mackerel,  or  the  abrupt 
uplifting  of  a  seal's  head,  became  over-famil- 
iar, and  I  desired  terror,  and  could  not  find 
it  by  the  shore.  Inland,  after  dusk,  there  was 
always  the  mysterious  multitude  of  shadow. 
There  too,  I  could  hear  the  wind  leaping  and 
growling.  But  by  the  shore  I  never  knew  any 
dread,  even  in  the  darkest  night.  The  sound 
and  company  of  the  sea  washed  away  all 
fears. 

I  was  amused  not  long  ago  to  hear  a  little 
girl  singing,  as  she  ran  wading  through  the 
190 


lona 

foam  of  a  troubled  sunlit  sea,  as  it  broke  on 
those  wonderful  white  sands  of  lona — 

"Shanny,  Shanny,  Shanny, 
Catch  my  feet  and  tickle  my  toes! 
And  if  you  can,  Shanny,  Shanny,  Shanny, 
I'll  go  with  you  where  no  one  knows!" 

I  have  no  doubt  this  daintier  Shanny  was  my 
old  friend  Shony,  whose  more  terrifying  way 
was  to  clutch  boats  by  the  keel  and  drown  the 
sailors,  and  make  a  death-necklace  of  their 
teeth.  An  evil  Shony;  for  once  he  netted  a 
young  girl  who  was  swimming  in  a  loch,  and 
when  she  would  not  give  him  her  love  he  tied 
her  to  a  rock,  and  to  this  day  her  long  brown 
hair  may  be  seen  floating  in  the  shallow  green 
wave  at  the  ebb  of  the  tide.  One  need  not 
name  the  place ! 

The  Shanny  song  recalls  to  me  an  old 
Gaelic  alphabet  rhyme,  wherein  a  MaigJi- 
deann-Mhara,  or  Mermaid,  stood  for  M,  and 
a  Suire  (also  a  mermaid)  stood  for  S ;  and 
my  long  perplexities  as  to  whether  I  would 
know  a  shuera  from  a  midianmara  when  I  saw 
either.  It  also  recalls  to  me  that  it  was  from 
a  young  schoolmaster  priest,  who  had  come 
back  from  Ireland  to  die  at  home,  that  I  first 
heard  of  the  Beth-Luis-Nuin,  the  Gaelic 
equivalent  of  "  the  A  B  C."  Every  letter  in 
191 


lona 

the  Gaelic  alphabet  is  represented  by  a  tree, 
and  Beithe  and  Luis  and  Nuin  are  the  Birch, 
the  Rowan,  and  the  Ash.  The  reason  why 
the  alphabet  is  called  the  Beth-Luis-Nuin  is 
that  B,  L,  N,  and  not  A,  B,  C,  are  its  first 
three  letters.  It  consists  of  eighteen  letters — 
and  in  ancient  Gaelic  seventeen,  for  H  (the 
Uath,  or  Whitethorn)  does  not  exist  there,  I 
believe:  and  these  run,  B,  L,  N,  F,  S  (H), 
D,  T,  C,  M,  G,  P,  R,  A,  O,  U,  E,  I— each  let- 
ter represented  by  the  name  of  a  tree.  Birch, 
Rowan,  Ash,  etc.  Properly,  there  is  no  C  in 
Gaelic,  for  though  the  letter  C  is  common,  it 
has  always  the  sound  of  K. 

Since  this  page  first  appeared  I  have  had  so 
many  letters  about  the  Gaelic  alphabet  of  to- 
day that  I  take  the  opportunity  to  add  a  few 
lines.  To-day  as  of  old  all  the  letters  of  the 
Gaelic  alphabet  are  called  after  trees,  from 
the  oak  to  the  shrub-like  elder,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  G,  T,  and  U,  which  stand  for  Ivy, 
Furze  and  Heather.  It  no  longer  runs  B,  L, 
N,  etc.,  but  in  sequence  follows  the  familiar 
and  among  western  peoples,  universal  A,  B, 
C,  etc.  It  is,  however,  short  of  our  Roman 
alphabet  by  eight  letters  J,  K,  O,  V,  W,  X, 
Y  and  Z.  On  the  other  hand,  each  of  these 
is  represented,  either  by  some  other  letter 
having  a  like  value  or  by  a  combination : 
192 


lona 

thus  K  is  identical  with  C,  which  does  not 
exist  in  Gaelic  as  a  soft  sound  any  more  than 
it  does  in  Greek,  but  only  as  the  C  in  Eng- 
lish words  such  as  cat  or  cart^  or  in  combina- 
tion with  h  as  a  gutteral  as  in  loch — while  v 
as  common  a  sound  in  Gaelic  as  the  hiss  of  s 
in  English  exists  in  almost  every  second  or 
third  word  as  bh  or  mh.  The  Gaelic  A,  B,  C 
of  to-day,  then,  runs  as  follows:  Ailm,  Beite, 
Coll,  Dur,  Eagh,  Fearn,  Gath,  Huath,  Togh, 
Luis,  Muin,  Nuin,  Oir,  Peith,  Ruis,  Suil, 
Teine,  Ur — which  again  is  equivalent  to  say- 
ing Elm,  Birch,  Hazel,  Oak,  Aspen,  Alder, 
Ivy,  Whitethorn,  Yew,  Rowan  or  Quicken, 
Vine,  Ash,  Spindle-tree,  Pine,  Elder,  Willow, 
Furze,  Heath. 

The  little  girl  who  knew  so  much  about 
Shanny  knew  nothing  but  of  her  own  ABC. 
But  I  owe  her  a  debt,  since  through  her  I 
came  upon  my  good  friend  "  Gunainm." 
From  her  I  heard  first,  there  on  lona,  on  a 
chance  visit  of  a  few  summer  days,  of  two 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  ancient  Gaelic 
hymns,  the  Fiacc  Hymn  and  the  Hymn  of 
Broccan.  My  friend  had  delineated  them  as 
missals,  with  a  strangely  beautiful  design  to 
each.  How  often  I  have  thought  of  one,  il- 
lustrative of  a  line  in  the  Fiacc  Hymn : 
"  There  was  pagan  darkness  in  Eire  in  those 

193 


lona 

days:  the  people  adored  Faerie."  In  the 
Broccan  Hymn  (composed  by  one  Broccan 
in  the  time  of  Lugaid,  son  of  Loegaire,  a.d. 
500)  is  one  particularly  lovely  line :  "  Vic- 
torious Bride  (Briget)  loved  not  this  vain 
world:  here,  ever,  she  sat  the  seat  of  a  bird 
on  a  cliff." 

In  a  dream  I  dream  frequently,  that  of 
being  the  wind,  and  drifting  over  fra- 
grant hedgerows  and  pastures,  I  have  often, 
through  unconscious  remembrance  of  that 
image  of  St.  Bride  sitting  the  seat  of  a  bird 
on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  that  is  this  world,  felt 
myself,  when  not  lifted  on  sudden  warm  fans 
of  dusk,  propelled  as  on  a  swift  wing  from 
the  edge  of  a  precipice. 

I  would  that  we  had  these  winds  of  dream 
to  command.  I  would,  now  that  I  am  far 
from  it,  that  this  night  at  least  I  might  pass 
over  lona,  and  hear  the  sea-doves  by  the  ruins 
making  their  sweet  mournful  croon  of  peace, 
and  lift,  as  a  shadow  gathering  phantom 
flowers,  the  pale  orchis  by  the  lapwing's  nest. 

One  day,  walking  by  a  reedy  lochan  on  the 
Ross  of  Mull,  not  far  inland  from  Fionna- 
phort,  where  is  the  ferry  for  Baile-Mor  of 
lona,  I  met  an  old  man  who  seemed  in  sor- 
row. When  he  spoke  I  was  puzzled  by  some 
194 


lona 

words  which  were  not  native  there,  and  then 
I  learned  that  he  had  long  lived  in  Edinburgh 
and  later  in  Dunfermline,  and  in  his  work 
had  associated  with  Hollanders  and  others  of 
the  east  seas. 

He  had  come  back,  in  his  old  age,  to  "  see 
the  place  of  his  two  loves  " — the  hamlet  in 
Earraid,  where  his  old  mother  had  blessed 
him  "  forty  year  back,"  and  the  little  farm 
where  Jean  Cameron  had  kissed  him  and 
promised  to  be  true.  He  had  gone  away  as  a 
soldier,  and  news  reached  them  of  his  death  ; 
and  when  he  came  out  of  the  Indies,  and  went 
up  Leith  Walk  to  the  great  post-house  in  Edin- 
burgh, it  was  to  learn  that  the  Earraid  cot- 
tage was  empty,  and  that  Jean  was  no  longer 
Jean  Cameron. 

There  was  not  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  the 
old  man's  words.  "  It  was  my  name,  for  one 
thing,"  he  said  simply:  "  you  see,  there's  many 
a  "  J.  Macdonald "  in  the  Highland  regi- 
ments ;  and  the  mistake  got  about  that  way. 
No,  no — the  dear  lass  wasna  to  blame.  And 
I  never  lost  her  love.  When  I  found  out 
where  she  was  I  went  to  see  her  once  more, 
an'  to  tell  her  I  understood,  an'  loved  her  all 
the  same.  It  was  hard,  in  a  way,  when  I 
found  she  had  made  a  loveless  marriage,  but 
human   nature's    human   nature,   an'    I    could 

195 


lona 

not  but  be  proud  and  glad  that  she  had  nane 
but  puir  Jamie  Macdonald  in  her  heart.  I 
told  her  I  would  be  true  to  her,  and  since  she 
was  poor,  would  help  her,  an'  wi'  God's  kind- 
ness true  I  was,  an'  helped  her  too.  For  her 
man  did  an  awfu'  business  one  day,  and  was 
sentenced  for  life.  She  had  three  bairns. 
Well,  I  keepit  her  an'  them — though  I  ne'er 
saw  them  but  once  in  the  year,  for  she  had 
come  back  to  the  west,  her  heart  brast  with 
the  towns.  First  one  bairn  died,  then  another. 
Then  Jean  died." 

The  old  man  resumed  suddenly :  "  I  had 
put  all  my  savings  into  the  Grand  North 
Bank.  When  that  failed  I  had  nothing,  for 
with  the  little  that  was  got  back  I  bought  a 
good  'prenticeship  for  Jean's  eldest.  Since 
then  I've  lived  by  odd  jobs.  But  Fm  old 
now,  an'  broke.  Every  day  an'  every  night 
I  think  o'  them  two,  my  mother  an'  Jean." 

"  She  must  have  been  a  leal  fine  woman,"  I 
said,  but  in  Gaelic.  With  a  flash  he  looked  at 
me,  and  then  said  slowly,  as  if  remembering, 
"  Eudail  dc  mhnathan  an  domhain,"  "  Treas- 
ure of  all  the  women  in  the  world." 

I  have  often  thought  of  old  "  Jamie  Mac- 
donald "  since.  How  wonderful  his  deep 
love !  This  man  was  loyal  to  his  love  in  long 
absence,  and  was  not  less  loyal  when  he  found 
196 


lona 

that  she  was  the  wife  of  another;  and  gave 
up  thought  of  home  and  comfort  and  com- 
panionship, so  that  he  might  make  hfe  more 
easy  for  her  and  the  children  that  were  not 
his.  He  had  no  outer  reward  for  this,  nor 
looked  for  any. 

We  crossed  to  Balliemore  together,  and 
when  I  came  upon  him  next  day  by  the 
Reilig  Odhran,  I  asked  him  what  he  thought 
of  lona. 

He  looked  at  the  grey  worn  stones,  "  the 
stairway  of  the  kings,"  the  tombs,  the  carved 
crosses,  the  grey  ruin  of  the  wind-harried  ca- 
thedral, and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  said 
simply,  "  Comunn  mo  ghaoil,"  "  'Tis  a  com- 
panionship after  my  heart." 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  old  man  went  on 
his  way  comforted  by  the  grey  silence  and 
grey  beauty  of  this  ancient  place,  and  that 
he  found  in  lona  what  would  be  near  him  for 
the  rest  of  his  days. 

As  a  child  I  had  some  wise  as  well  as  fool- 
ish instruction  concerning  the  nations  of 
Faerie.  If,  in  common  with  nearly  all  happy 
children,  I  was  brought  up  in  intimate,  even 
in  circumstantial,  knowledge  of  "  the  fairies  " 
— being  charitably  taught,  for  one  thing,  so 
that  I  have  often  left  a  little  bowl  of  milk,  a 

197 


lona 

saucerful  of  oatcake  and  honey,  and  the  hke, 
under  a  wooden  seat,  where  they  would  be 
sure  to  see  it — I  was  told  also  of  the  Sidhe, 
often  so  rashly  and  ignorantly  alluded  to 
as  the  fairies  in  the  sense  of  a  pretty, 
diminutive,  harmless,  natural  folk;  and  by 
my  nurse  Barabal  instructed  in  some  of 
the  ways,  spells,  influences,  and  even  ap- 
pearances of  these  powerful  and  mysterious 
clans. 

I  do  not  think,  unless  as  a  very  young 
child,  I  ever  confused  them.  I  recollect  well 
my  pleasure  at  a  sign  of  gratitude.  I  was 
fond  of  making  little  reed  or  bulrush  or  ash 
flutes,  but  once  I  was  in  a  place  where  these 
were  difficult  to  get,  and  I  lost  the  only  one 
I  had.  That  night  I  put  aside  a  small  portion 
of  my  supper  of  bread  and  milk  and  honey, 
and  remember  also  the  sacrifice  of  a  goose- 
berry of  noble  proportions,  relinquished,  not 
without  a  sigh,  in  favour  of  any  wandering 
fairy  lad. 

Next  morning  when  I  ran  out — three  of  us 
then  had  a  wild  morning  performance  we 
called  some  fantastic,  forgotten  name,  and 
ourselves  the  Sun-dancers — I  saw  by  the  emp- 
tied saucer  my  little  reed-flute !  Here  was 
proof  positive !  I  was  so  grateful  for  that 
fairy's  gratitude,  that  when  dusk  came  again 
198 


lona 

I  not  only  left  a  larger  supper-dole  than 
usual,  but,  decked  with  white  fox-glove  bells 
(in  which  I  had  unbounded  faith),  sat 
drenched  in  the  dew  and  played  my  little 
reed.  '  Any  moment  (I  was  sure)  a  small 
green  fellow  would  appear,  and  with  wild  in- 
dignation I  found  myself  snatched  from  the 
grass,  and  my  ears  dinned  now  with  re- 
proaches about  the  dew,  now  with  remon- 
strances against  "  that  frightfu'  reed-screech- 
ing that  scared  awa'  the  varry  hens." 

Ah,  there  are  souls  that  know  nothing  of 
fairies,  or  music ! 

But  the  Sidhe  are  a  very  different  people 
from  the  small  clans  of  the  earth's  delight. 

However  (though  I  could  write  of  both  a 
great  volume),  I  have  little  to  say  of  either 
just  now,  except  in  one  connection. 

It  is  commonly  said  that  the  People  of  the 
Sidhe  dwell  within  the  hills,  or  in  the  under- 
world. In  some  of  the  isles  their  home,  now, 
is  spoken  of  as  Tir-na-thonn,  the  Land  of  the 
Wave,  or  Tir-fo-Tuinn,  the  Land  under  the 
Sea. 

But  from  a  friend,  an  islander  of  lona,  I 
have  learned  many  things,  and  among  them, 
that  the  Shee  no  longer  dwell  within  the  in- 
land hills,  and  that  though  many  of  them  in- 
habit the  lonelier  isles  of  the  west,  and  in 
199 


lona 

particular    The    Seven    Hunters,  their    King- 
dom is  in  the  North. 

Some  say  it  is  among  the  pathless  moun- 
tains of  Iceland.  But  my  friend  spoke  to  an 
Iceland  man,  and  he  said  he  had  never  seen 
them.  There  were  Secret  People  there,  but 
not  the  Gaelic  Sidhe. 

Their  Kingdom  is  in  the  North,  under  the 
Fir-Chlisneach,  the  Dancing  Men,  as  the 
Hebrideans  call  the  polar  aurora.  They  are 
always  young  there.  Their  bodies  are  white 
as  the  wild  swan,  their  hair  yellow  as  honey, 
their  eyes  blue  as  ice.  Their  feet  leave  no 
mark  on  the  snow.  The  women  are  white  as 
milk,  with  eyes  like  sloes,  and  lips  like  red 
rowans.  They  fight  with  shadows,  and  are 
glad;  but  the  shadows  are  not  shadows  to 
them.  The  Shee  slay  great  numbers  at  the 
full  moon,  but  never  hunt  on  moonless  nights, 
or  at  the  rising  of  the  moon,  or  when  the  dew 
is  falling.  Their  lances  are  made  of  reeds 
that  glitter  like  shafts  of  ice,  and  it  is  ill  for 
a  mortal  to  find  one  of  these  lances,  for  it  is 
tipped  with  the  salt  of  a  wave  that  no  living 
thing  has  touched,  neither  the  wailing  mew 
nor  the  finned  sgadan  nor  his  tribe,  nor  the 
narwhal.  There  are  no  men  of  the  human 
clans  there,  and  no  shores,  and  the  tides  are 
forbidden. 

200 


lona 

Long  ago  one  of  the  monks  of  Columba 
sailed  there.  He  sailed  for  thrice  seven  days 
till  he  lost  the  rocks  of  the  north ;  and  for 
thrice  thirty  days,  till  Iceland  in  the  south 
was  like  a  small  bluebell  in  a  great  grey  plain ; 
and  for  thrice  three  years  among  bergs.  For 
the  first  three  years  the  finned  things  of  the  sea 
brought  him  food ;  for  the  second  three  years 
he  knew  the  kindness  of  the  creatures  of  the 
air;  in  the  last  three  years  angels  fed  him. 
He  lived  among  the  Sidhe  for  three  hundred 
years.  When  he  came  back  to  lona,  he  was 
asked  where  he  had  been  all  that  long  night 
since  evensong  to  matins.  The  monks  had 
sought  him  everywhere,  and  at  dawn  had 
found  him  lying  in  the  hollow  of  the  long 
wave  that  washes  lona  on  the  north.  He 
laughed  at  that,  and  said  he  had  been  on  the 
tops  of  the  billows  for  nine  years  and  three 
months  and  twenty-one  days,  and  for  three 
hundred  years  had  lived  among  a  deathless 
people.  He  had  drunk  sweet  ale  every  day, 
and  every  day  had  known  love  among  flowers 
and  green  bushes,  and  at  dusk  had  sung  old 
beautiful  forgotten  songs,  and  with  star-flame 
had  lit  strange  fires,  and  at  the  full  of  the 
moon  had  gone  forth  laughing  to  slay.  It  was 
heaven,  there,  under  the  Lights  of  the  North. 
When  he  was  asked  how  that  people  might 
201 


lona 

be  known,  he  said  that  away  from  there  they 
had  a  cold,  cold  hand,  a  cold,  still  voice,  and 
cold  ice-blue  eyes.  They  had  four  cities  at  the 
four  ends  of  the  green  diamond  that  is  the 
world.  That  in  the  north  was  made  of  earth ; 
that  in  the  east,  of  air;  that  in  the  south,  of 
fire ;  that  in  the  west,  of  water.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  green  diamond  that  is  the  world  is 
the  Glen  of  Precious  Stones.  It  is  in  the 
shape  of  a  heart,  and  glows  like  a  ruby, 
though  all  stones  and  gems  are  there.  It  is 
there  the  Sidhe  go  to  refresh  their  deathless 
life. 

The  holy  monks  said  that  this  kingdom  was 
certainly  Ifurin,  the  Gaelic  Hell.  So  they  put 
their  comrade  alive  in  a  grave  in  the  sand,  and 
stamped  the  sand  down  upon  his  head,  and 
sang  hymns  so  that  mayhap  even  yet  his  soul 
might  be  saved,  or,  at  least,  that  when  he 
went  back  to  that  place  he  might  remember 
other  songs  than  those  sung  by  the  milk-white 
women  with  eyes  like  sloes  and  lips  red  as 
rowans.  "  Tell  that  honey-mouthed  cruel 
people  they  are  in  Hell,"  said  the  abbot, 
"  and  give  them  my  ban  and  my  curse  un- 
less they  will  cease  laughing  and  loving 
sinfully  and  slaying  with  bright  lances,  and 
will  come  out  of  their  secret  places  and  be 
baptized." 

202 


lona 

They  have  not  yet  come. 

This  adventurer  of  the  dreaming  mind  is 
another  Oran,  that  fabulous  Oran  of  whom 
the  later  Columban  legends  tell.  I  think  that 
other  Orans  go  out,  even  yet,  to  the  Country 
of  the  Sidhe.  But  few  come  again.  It  must 
be  hard  to  find  that  glen  at  the  heart  of  the 
green  diamond  that  is  the  world ;  but,  when 
found,  harder  to  return  by  the  way  one  came. 

Once  when  I  was  sailing  to  Tiree,  I  stopped 
at  lona,  and  went  to  see  an  old  woman  named 
Giorsal.  She  was  of  my  own  people,  and, 
not  being  lona-born,  the  islanders  called  her 
the  foreigner.  She  had  a  daughter  named 
Ealasaidh,  or  Elsie  as  it  is  generally  given  in 
English,  and  I  wanted  to  see  her  even  more 
than  the  old  woman. 

"Where  is  Elsie?"  I  asked,  after  our 
greetings  were  done. 

Giorsal  looked  at  me  sidelong,  and  then 
shifted  the  kettle,  and  busied  herself  with  the 
teapot. 

I  repeated  the  question. 

"  She  is  gone,"  the  old  woman  said,  with- 
out looking  at  me. 

"  Gone  ?     Where  has  she  gone  to  ?  " 

"  I  might  as  well  ask  you  to  tell  me  that." 

**  Is  she  married  .  .  .  had  she  a  lover  .  .  . 
203 


lona 

or  ...  or  ...  do  you  mean  that  she  .  .  . 
that  you  .  .  .  have  lost  her?  " 

"  She's  gone.  That's  all  I  know.  But  she 
isn't  married,  so  far  as  I  know :  an'  I  never 
knew  any  man  she  fancied:  an'  neither  I  nor 
any  other  on  lona  has  seen  her  dead  body ; 
an'  by  St.  Martin's  Cross,  neither  I  nor  any 
other  saw  her  leave  the  island.  And  that 
was  more  than  a  year  ago." 

"  But,  Giorsal,  she  must  have  left  lona  and 
gone  to  Mull,  or  maybe  gone  away  in  a 
steamer,  or " 

"  It  was  in  midwinter,  an'  when  a  heavy 
gale  was  tearing  through  the  Sound.  There 
was  no  steamer  an'  no  boat  that  day. 
There  isn't  a  boat  of  lona  that  could  have 
taken  the  sea  that  day.  And  no — Elsie  wasna 
drowned.  I  see  that's  what's  in  your  mind. 
She  just  went  out  o'  the  house  again  cryin'. 
I  asked  her  what  was  wrong  wi'  her.  She 
turned  an'  smiled,  an'  because  o'  that  terri- 
fying smile  I  couldna  say  a  word.  She  went 
up  behind  the  Ruins,  an'  no  one  saw  her  af- 
ter that  but  Ian  Donn.  He  saw  her  among 
the  bulrushes  in  the  swamp  over  by  Staonaig. 
She  was  laughing  an'  talking  to  the  reeds,  or 
to  the  wind  in  the  reeds.    So  Ian  Donn  says." 

"  And  what  do  you  say,  Giorsal?  " 

The  old  woman  went  to  the  door,  looked 
204 


lona 

out,  and  closed  it.  When  she  returned,  she 
put  another  bit  on  the  fire,  and  kept  her  gaze 
on  the  red  glow. 

"  Do  you  know  much  about  them  old  lona 
monks  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

"What  old  monks?" 

"  Them  as  they  call  the  Culdees.  You  used 
to  be  askin'  lots  o'  questions  about  them. 
Ay?  well  .  .  .  they  aye  hated  folk  from  the 
North,  an'  women-folk  above  all." 

I  waited,  silent. 

"  And  Elsie,  poor  lass,  she  hated  them  in 
turn.  She  was  all  for  the  wild  clansmen  out 
o'  Skye  and  the  Long  Island.  She  said  she 
wished  the  Siol  Leoid  had  come  to  lona  be- 
fore Colum  built  the  big  church.  And  for 
why?  Well,  there's  this,  for  one  thing:  For 
months  a  monk  had  come  to  her  o'  nights  in 
her  sleep,  an'  said  he  would  kill  her,  because 
she  was  a  heathen.  She  went  to  the  minister 
at  last,  an'  said  her  say.  He  told  her  she  was 
a  foolish  wench,  an'  was  sore  angry  with 
her.  So  then  she  went  to  old  Mary  Gillespie, 
out  by  the  lochan  beyond  Fionnaphort  on 
the  Ross  yonder — her  that  has  the  sight 
an'  a  power  o'  the  old  wisdom.  After  that 
she  took  to  meeting  friends  in  the  moon- 
shine." 

"  Friends? " 

205 


tona 

"  Ay.  There's  no  call  to  name  names. 
One  day  she  told  me  that  she  had  been  bid- 
den to  go  over  to  them.  If  she  didn't,  the 
monks  would  kill  her,  they  said.  The  monks 
are  still  the  strongest  here,  they  told  her,  or 
she  me,  I  forget  which.  That  is,  except  over 
by  Staonaig.  Up  between  Sgeur  lolaire  and 
Cnoc  Druidean  there's  a  path  that  no  monk 
can  go.  There,  in  the  old  days,  they  burned 
a  woman.  She  was  not  a  woman,  but  they 
thought  she  was.  She  was  one  o'  the  Sorrows 
of  the  Shee,  that  they  put  out  to  suffer  for 
them,  an'  get  the  mortal  ill.  That's  the  plague 
to  them.  It's  ill  to  any  that  brings  harm  on 
them.  That's  why  the  monks  arena  strong 
over  by  Staonaig  way.  But  I  told  my  girl 
not  to  mind.  She  was  safe  wi'  me,  I  said. 
She  said  that  was  true.  For  weeks  I  heard  no 
more  o'  that  monk.  One  night  Elsie  came 
in  smiling  an'  pluckin'  wild  roses.  "  Breis- 
leach!"  I  cried,  "  what's  the  meanin'  o'  roses 
in  January?"  She  looked  at  me,  frighted, 
an'  said  nothin',  but  threw  the  things  on  the 
fire.     It  was  next  day  she  went  away." 

"  And " 

"An'  that's  all.  Here's  the  tea.  Ay,  an* 
for  sure  here's  my  good  man.  Whist,  now ! 
Rob,  do  you  see  who's  here?" 


206 


lona 

Nothing  is  more  strange  than  the  confused 
survival  of  legends  and  pagan  faiths  and  early- 
Christian  beliefs,  such  as  may  be  found  still 
in  some  of  the  isles.  A  Tiree  man,  whom  I 
met  some  time  ago  on  the  boat  that  was  tak- 
ing us  both  to  the  west,  told  me  there's  a 
story  that  Mary  Magdalene  lies  in  a  cave  in 
lona.  She  roamed  the  world  with  a  blind 
man  who  loved  her,  but  they  had  no  sin.  One 
day  they  came  to  Knoidart  in  Argyll.  Mary 
Magdalene's  first  husband  had  tracked  her 
there,  and  she  knew  that  he  would  kill  the 
blind  man.  So  she  bade  him  lie  down  among 
some  swine,  and  she  herself  herded  them. 
But  her  husband  came  and  laughed  at  her. 
"  That  is  a  fine  boar  you  have  there,"  he 
said.  Then  he  put  a  spear  through  the  blind 
man.  "  Now  I  will  take  your  beautiful  hair," 
he  said.  He  did  this,  and  went  away.  She 
wept  till  she  died.  One  of  Colum's  monks 
found  her,  and  took  her  to  lona,  and  she  was 
buried  in  a  cave.  No  one  but  Colum  knew 
who  she  was.  Colum  sent  away  the  man,  be- 
cause he  was  always  mooning  and  lamenting. 
She  had  a  great  wonderful  beauty  to  her. 

It  is  characteristic  enough,  even  to  the 
quaint  confusion  that  could  make  Mary  Mag- 
dalene and  St.  Columba  contemporary.  But 
as  for  the  story,  what  is  it  but  the  universal 
207 


lona 

Gaelic  legend  of  Diarmid  and  Grania?  They 
too  wandered  far  to  escape  the  avenger.  It 
does  not  matter  that  their  "  beds  "  are  shown 
in  rock  and  moor,  from  Glenmoriston  to 
Loch  Awe,  from  Lora  Water  to  West  Loch 
Tarbert,  with  an  authenticity  as  absolute  as 
that  which  discovers  them  almost  anywhere 
between  Donegal  and  Clare;  nor  that  the 
death-place  has  many  sites  betwixt  Argyll  and 
Connemara.  In  Gaelic  Scotland  every  one 
knows  that  Diarmid  was  wounded  to  the 
death  on  the  rocky  ground  between  Tarbert 
of  Loch  Fyne  and  the  West  Loch.  Every 
one  knows  the  part  the  boar  played,  and  the 
part  Finn  played. 

Doubtless  the  story  came  by  way  of  the 
Shannon  to  the  Loch  of  Shadows,  or  from 
Cucullin's  land  to  Diin  Sobhairce  on  the  An- 
trim coast,  and  thence  to  the  Scottish  main- 
land. In  wandering  to  the  isles,  it  lost  some- 
thing both  of  Eire  and  Alba.  The  Campbells, 
too,  claimed  Diarmid;  and  so  the  Hebrideans 
would  as  soon  forget  him.  So,  there,  by  one 
byplay  of  the  mind  or  another,  it  survived  in 
changing  raiment.  Perhaps  an  islesman  had 
heard  a  strange  legend  about  Mary  Magda- 
lene, and  so  named  Grania  anew.  Perhaps  a 
story-teller  consciously  wove  it  the  new  way. 
Perhaps  an  lona  man,  hearing  the  tale  in  dis- 
208 


lona 

tant  Barra  or  Uist,  in  Coll  or  Tiree,  "  buried  " 
Mary  in  a  cave  of  Icolmkill. 

The  notable  thing  is,  not  that  a  primitive 
legend  should  love  fantastic  raiment,  but  that 
it  should  be  so  much  aUke,  where  the  Syrian 
wanders  from  waste  to  waste,  by  the  camp- 
fires  of  the  Basque  muleteers,  and  in  the  rainy 
lands  of  the  Gael. 

In  Mingulay,  one  of  the  south  isles  of  the 
Hebrides,  in  South  Uist,  and  in  lona,  I  have 
heard  a  practically  identical  tale  told  with 
striking  variations.  It  is  a  tale  so  wide- 
spread that  it  has  given  rise  to  a  pathetic 
proverb,  "  Is  mairg  a  loisgeadh  a  chlarsach 
dut,"  "  Pity  on  him  who  would  burn  the  harp 
for  you." 

In  Mingulay,  the  "  harper  "  who  broke  his 
"  harp  "  for  a  woman's  love  was  a  young  man, 
a  fiddler.  For  three  years  he  wandered  out  of 
the  west  into  the  east,  and  when  he  had  made 
enough  money  to  buy  a  good  share  in  a  fish- 
ing-boat, or  even  a  boat  itself,  he  came  back 
to  Mingulay.  When  he  reached  his  Mary's  cot- 
tage, at  dusk,  he  played  her  favourite  air,  an 
"  oran  leannanachd,"  but  when  she  came  out  it 
was  with  a  silver  ring  on  her  left  hand  and  a 
baby  in  her  arms.  Thus  poor  Padruig  Mac- 
neill  knew  Mary  had  broken  her  troth  and 
married  another  man,  and  so  he  went  down 
209 


lona 

to  the  shore  and  played  a  "  marbh-rann,"  and 
then  broke  his  fiddle  on  the  rocks ;  and  when 
they  came  upon  him  in  the  morning  he  had 
the  strings  of  it  round  his  neck.  In  Uist,  the 
instrument  is  more  vaguely  called  a  "  tiom- 
pan,"  and  here,  on  a  bitter  cold  night  in  a 
famine  time,  the  musician  breaks  it  so  as  to 
feed  the  fire  to  warm  his  wife — a  sacrifice  ill 
repaid  by  the  elopement  of  the  hard  woman 
that  night.  In  lona,  the  tale  is  of  an  Irish  piper 
who  came  over  to  Icolmkill  on  a  pilgrimage, 
and  to  lay  his  "  peeb-h'yanna  "  ^  on  "  the  holy 
stones  " ;  but,  when  there,  he  got  word  that 
his  young  wife  was  ill,  so  he  "  made  a  loan 
of  his  clar,"  and  with  the  money  returned  to 
Derry,  only  to  find  that  his  dear  had  gone 
away  with  a  soldier  for  the  Americas. 

The  legendary  history  of  lona  would  be  as 
much  Pagan  as  Christian.  To-day,  at  many 
a  ceilidh  by  the  warm  hearths  in  winter,  one 
may  hear  allusions  to  the  Scandinavian  pi- 
rates, or  to  their  more  ancient  and  obscure 
kin,  the  Fomor.  .  .  .  The  Fomor  or  Fomor- 
ians  were  a  people  that  lived  before  the  Gael, 
and  had  their  habitations  in  the  isles :  fierce 
prowlers  of  the  sea,  who  loved  darkness  and 

'The  Irish  pipes  are  called  " Piob-theannaich " 
to  distinguish  them  from  the  "Piob"  or  "  Piob- 
Mhor"  of  the  Highlands. 

2IO 


iona 

cold  and  storm,  and  drove  herds  of  wolves 
across  the  deeps.  In  other  words,  they  were 
elemental  forces.  But  the  name  is  sometimes 
used  for  the  Norse  pirates  who  ravaged  the 
west,  from  the  Lews  to  the  town  of  the  Hur- 
dle-Ford. 

In  poetic  narration  "  the  men  of  Lochlin  " 
occurs  oftener :  sometimes  the  Summer-sail- 
ors, as  the  Vikings  called  themselves ;  some- 
times, perhaps  oftenest,  the  Danes.  The  Vik- 
ings have  left  numerous  personal  names 
among  the  islanders,  notably  the  general 
term  "  summer-sailors,"  somerledi,  which 
survives  as  Somerled.  Many  Macleods  and 
Macdonalds  are  called  Somerled,  Torquil 
(also  Torcall,  Thorkill),  and  Manus  (Mag- 
nus), and  in  the  Hebrides  surnames  such  as 
Odrum  betray  a  Norse  origin.  A  glance  at 
any  good  map  will  reveal  how  largely  the 
capes  and  promontories  and  headlands,  and 
small  bays  and  havens  of  the  west,  remember 
the  lords  of  the  Suderoer. 

The  fascination  of  this  legendary  history  is 
in  its  contrast  of  the  barbaric  and  the  spirit- 
ual. Since  I  was  a  child  I  have  been  held 
spellbound  by  this  singular  union.  To  see  the 
Virgin  Mary  in  the  sombre  and  terrible  figure 
of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford,  or  spiritual  des- 
tiny in  that  of  the  Woman  with  the  Net,  was 

211 


lona 

natural :  as  to  believe  that  the  same  Columba 
could  be  as  tender  as  St.  Bride  or  gentle  as 
St.  Francis,  and  yet  could  thrust  the  living 
Oran  back  into  his  grave,  or  prophecy,  as 
though  himself  a  believer  in  the  druidic  wis- 
dom, by  the  barking  of  a  favourite  hound 
that  had  a  white  spot  on  his  forehead — Don- 
nalaicli  chon  chinain. 

Of  this  characteristic  blending  of  pagan 
and  Christian  thought  and  legend  I  have  tried 
elsewhere  to  convey  some  sense — oftener, 
perhaps,  have  instinctively  expressed :  and 
here,  as  they  are  apposite  to  lona,  I  would 
like  to  select  some  pages  as  representative  of 
three  phases — namely,  of  the  barbaric  history 
of  lona,  of  the  primitive  spiritual  history 
which  is  so  childlike  in  its  simplicity,  and  of 
that  direct  grafting  of  Christian  thought  and 
imagery  upon  pagan  thought  and  imagery 
which  at  one  time,  and  doubtless  for  many 
generations  (for  it  still  survives),  was  a  nor- 
mal unconscious  method.  Some  five  years 
ago  I  wrote  three  short  Columban  stories,  col- 
lectively called  The  Three  Marvels  of  lona, 
one  named  "  The  Festival  of  the  Birds,"  an- 
other "  The  Sabbath  of  the  Fishes  and  the 
Flies,"  and  the  third  "  The  Moon-Child."  It 
is  the  second  of  these  that,  somewhat  altered 

212 


lona 

to  its  present  use  by  running  into  it  part  of 
another  Columban  tale,  I  add  now. 

Before  dawn,  on  the  morning  of  the  hun- 
dredth Sabbath  after  Colum  the  White  had 
made  glory  to  God  in  Hy,  that  was  thereto- 
fore called  loua,  or  the  Druid  Isle,  and  is 
now  lona,  the  saint  beheld  his  own  sleep  in 
a  vision. 

Much  fasting  and  long  pondering  over  the 
missals,  with  their  golden  and  azure  and  sea- 
green  initials  and  earth-brown  branching  let- 
ters, had  made  Colum  weary.  He  had 
brooded  much  of  late  upon  the  mystery  of 
the  living  world  that  was  not  man's  world. 

On  the  eve  of  that  hundredth  Sabbath, 
which  was  to  be  a  holy  festival  in  lona,  he 
had  talked  long  with  an  ancient  greybeard 
out  of  a  remote  isle  in  the  north,  the  wild 
Isle  of  the  Mountains,  where  Scathach  the 
queen  hanged  the  men  of  Lochlin  by  their 
yellow  hair. 

This  man's  name  was  Ardan,  and  he  was 
of  the  ancient  people.  He  had  come  to  lona 
because  of  two  things.  Maolmor,  the  king  of 
the  northern  Picts,  had  sent  him  to  learn  of 
Colum  what  was  this  god-teaching  he  had 
brought  out  of  Eire:  and  for  himself  he  had 
come  when  old  age  was  upon  him,  to  see  what 
213 


lona 

manner  of  man  this  Colum  was,  who  had 
made  loua,  that  was  "  Innis-nan-Dhruidh- 
nean  " — the  Isle  of  the  Druids — into  a  place 
of  new  worship. 

For  three  hours  Ardan  and  Colum  had 
walked  by  the  sea-shore.  Each  learned  of  the 
other.  Ardan  bowed  his  head  before  the 
wisdom.  Colum  knew  in  his  heart  that  the 
Druid  saw  mysteries. 

In  the  first  hour  they  talked  of  God. 

*'  Ay,  sure :  and  now,"  said  the  saint,  "  O 
Ardan  the  wise,  is  my  God  thy  God  ?  " 

At  that  Ardan  turned  his  eyes  to  the  west. 
With  his  right  hand  he  pointed  to  the  sun  that 
was  like  a  great  golden  flower.  "Truly,  He 
is  thy  God  and  my  God."  Colum  was  silent. 
Then  he  said :  "  Thee  and  thine,  O  Ardan, 
from  Maolmor  the  Pictish  king  to  the  least 
of  his  slaves,  shall  have  a  long  weariness  in 
Hell.  That  fiery  globe  yonder  is  but  the 
Lamp  of  the  World :  and  sad  is  the  case  of 
the  man  who  knows  not  the  torch  from  the 
torch-bearer." 

In  the  second  hour  they  talked  of  Man. 
While  Ardan  spoke,  Colum  smiled  in  his 
deep,  grey  eyes. 

"  It  is  for  laughter  that,"  he  said,  when 
Ardan  ceased. 

"And  why  will  that  be,  O  Colum  Cille?" 
214 


lona 

Ardan  asked.  Then  the  smile  went  out  of 
Colum's  grey  eyes,  and  he  turned  and  looked 
about  him. 

He  saw,  near,  a  crow,  a  horse,  and  a  hound. 

"  These  are  thy  brethren,"  he  said  scorn- 
fully. 

But  Ardan  answered  quietly,  "  Even  so." 

The  third  hour  they  talked  about  the  beasts 
of  the  earth  and  the  fowls  of  the  air. 

At  the  last  Ardan  said :  "  The  ancient  wis- 
dom hath  it  that  these  are  the  souls  of  men 
and  women  that  have  been,  or  are  to  be." 
Whereat  Colum  answered :  "  The  new  wis- 
dom, that  is  old  as  eternity,  declareth  that 
God  created  all  things  in  love.  Therefore  are 
we  at  one,  O  Ardan,  though  we  sail  to  the 
Isle  of  Truth  from  the  west  and  the  east. 
Let  there  be  peace  between  us."  "  Peace," 
said  Ardan. 

That  eve,  Ardan  of  the  Picts  sat  with  the 
monks  of  lona. 

Colum  blessed  him  and  said  a  saying. 
Cathal  of  the  Songs  sang  a  hymn  of  beauty. 
Ardan  rose,  and  put  the  wine  of  guests  to  his 
lips,  and  chanted  this  rami : 

O  Colum  and  monks  of  Christ, 
It  is  peace  we  are  having  this  night: 
Sure,  peace  is  a  good  thing, 
And  I  am  glad  with  the  gladness. 

215 


lona 

We  worship  one  God, 
Though  ye  call  him  Dia — 
And  I  say  not,  O  De! 
But  cry  Bea'uil  Bel! 

For  it  is  one  faith  for  man, 
And  one  for  the  living  world. 
And  no  man  is  wiser  than  another — 
And  none  knoweth  much. 

Norle  knoweth  a  better  thing  than  this: 
The  Sword,  Love,  Song,  Honour,  Sleep. 
None  knoweth  a  surer  thing  than  this: 
Birth,  Sorrow,  Pain,  Weariness,  Death. 

Sure,  peace  is  a  good  thing; 
Let  us  be  glad  of  peace: 
We  are  not  men  of  the  Sword, 
But  of  the  Rune  and  the  Wisdom. 

I  have  learned  a  truth  of  Colum, 
And  he  hath  learned  of  me : 
All  ye  on  the  morrow  shall  see 
A  wonder  of  the  wonders. 

Ardan  would  say  no  more  after  that,  though 
all  besought  him.  Many  pondered  long  that 
night.  Cathal  made  a  song  of  mystery. 
Colum  brooded  through  the  dark;  but  be- 
fore dawn  he  fell  asleep  upon  the  fern  that 
strewed  his  cell.  At  dawn,  with  waking  eyes, 
and  weary,  he  saw  his  Sleep  in  a  vision. 

It  stood  grey  and  wan  beside  him. 
2l6 


lona 

"What  art  thou,  O  Spirit?"  he  said. 

"  I  am  thy  Sleep,  Colum." 

"  And  is  it  peace  ?  " 

"  It  is  peace." 

"  What  wouldst  thou  ?  " 

"  I  have  wisdom.  Thy  mind  and  thy  soul 
were  closed.  I  could  not  give  what  I  brought. 
I  brought  wisdom." 

"  Give  it." 

"  Behold !  " 

And  Colum,  sitting  upon  the  strewed  fern 
that  was  his  bed,  rubbed  his  eyes  that  were 
heavy  with  weariness  and  fasting  and  long 
prayer.  He  could  not  see  his  Sleep  now.  It 
was  gone  as  smoke  that  is  licked  up  by  the 
wind.  .  .  . 

For  three  days  thereafter  Colum  fasted,  save 
for  a  handful  of  meal  at  dawn,  a  piece  of  rye- 
bread  at  noon,  and  a  mouthful  of  dulse  and 
spring-water  at  sun-down.  On  the  night  of 
the  third  day,  Oran  and  Keir  came  to  him  in 
his  cell.  Colum  was  on  his  knees  lost  in 
prayer.  No  sound  was  there,  save  the  faint 
whispered  muttering  of  his  lips  and  on 
the  plastered  wall  the  weary  buzzing  of  a 
fly. 

"  Holy  One !  "  said  Oran  in  a  low  voice, 
soft  with  pity  and  awe ;  "Holy  One !  " 

But  Colum  took  no  notice.  His  lips  still 
217 


lona 

moved,  and  the  tangled  hairs  below  his  nether 
lip  shivered  with  his  failing  breath. 

"  Father !  "  said  Keir,  tender  as  a  woman ; 
"  Father !  " 

Colum  did  not  turn  his  eyes  from  the  wall. 
The  fly  droned  his  drowsy  hum  upon  the 
rough  plaster.  It  crawled  wearily  for  a 
space,  then  stopped.  The  slow  hot  drone  filled 
the  cell. 

"  Father,"  said  Oran,  "  it  is  the  will  of  the 
brethren  that  thou  shouldst  break  thy  fast. 
Thou  art  old,  and  God  has  thy  glory.  Give 
us  peace." 

"  Father,"  urged  Keir,  seeing  that  Colum 
kneeled  unnoticingly,  his  lips  still  moving 
above  his  grey  beard,  with  the  white  hair  of 
him  falling  about  his  head  like  a  snowdrift 
slipping  from  a  boulder.  "  Father,  be  piti- 
ful !  We  hunger  and  thirst  for  thy  presence. 
We  can  fast  no  longer,  yet  we  have  no  heart 
to  break  our  fast  if  thou  art  not  with  us. 
Come,  holy  one.  and  be  of  our  company,  and 
eat  of  the  good  broiled  fish  that  awaiteth 
us.  We  perish  for  the  benediction  of  thine 
eyes." 

Then  it  was  that  Colum  rose,  and  walked 
slowly  towards  the  wall. 

"  Little  black  beast,"  he  said  to  the  fly  that 
droned  its  drowsy  hum  and  moved  not  at  all ; 
2l8 


lona 

"  little  black  beast,  sure  it  is  well  I  am  know- 
ing what  you  are.  You  are  thinking  you  are 
going  to  get  my  blessing,  you  that  have  come 
out  of  hell  for  the  soul  of  me !  " 

At  that  the  fly  flew  heavily  from  the  wall, 
and  slowly  circled  round  and  round  the  head 
of  Colum  the  White. 

"  What  think  ye  of  that,  brother  Oran, 
brother  Keir?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice,  hoarse 
because  of  his  long  fast  and  the  weariness 
that  was  upon  him. 

"  It  is  a  fiend,"  said  Oran. 

"  It  is  an  angel,"  said  Keir. 

Thereupon  the  fly  settled  upon  the  wall 
again,  and  again  droned  his  drowsy  hot  hum. 

"  Little  black  beast,"  said  Colum,  with  the 
frown  coming  down  into  his  eyes,  "  is  it  for 
peace  you  are  here,  or  for  sin  ?  Answer,  I 
conjure  you  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost !  " 

"An  ainn  an  Athar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  an 
Spioraid  Naoimh,"  repeated  Oran  below  his 
breath. 

"An  ainn  an  Athar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  an  Spio- 
raid Naoimh,"  repeated  Keir  below  his  breath. 

Then  the  fly  that  was  upon  the  wall  flew 
up  to  the  roof  and  circled  to  and  fro.  And 
it  sang  a  beautiful  song,  and  its  song  was 
this : 

219 


lona 

Praise  be  to  God,  and  a  blessing  too  at  that,  and  a 
blessing ! 

For  Colum  the  White,  Colum  the  Dove,  hath  wor- 
shipped ; 

Yea,  he  hath  worshipped  and  made  of  a  desert  a 
garden. 

And  out  of  the  dung  of  men's  souls  hath  made  a 
sweet  savour  of  burning. 

A  savour  of  burning,  most  sweet,  a  fire  for  the  altar, 
This  he  hath  made  in  the  desert;  the  hell-saved  all 

gladden. 
Sure  he  hath  put  his  benison,  too,  on  milch-cow  and 

bullock, 
On  the  fowls  of  the  air,  and  the  man-eyed  seals, 

and  the  otter. 

But  high  in  His  DAn  in  the  great  blue  mainland  of 

heaven, 
God  the  All-Father  broodeth,  where  the  harpers  are 

harping  His  glory: 
There  where  He  sitteth,  where  a  river  of  ale  poureth 

ever, 
His  great  sword  broken,  His  spear  in  the  dust.  He 

broodeth. 

And  this  is  the  thought  that  moves  in  his  brain,  as 

a  cloud  filled  with  thunder 
Moves  through  the  vast  hollow  sky  filled  with  the 

dust  of  the  stars — 
"What  boots  it  the  glory  of  Colum,  when  he  maketh 

a  Sabbath  to  bless  me. 
And  hath  no  thought  of  my  sons  in  the  deeps  of  the 

air  and  the  sea  ? ' ' 

220 


lona 

And  with  that  the  fly  passed  from  their 
vision.  In  the  cell  was  a  most  wondrous 
sweet  song,  like  the  sound  of  far-off  pipes 
over  water. 

Oran  said  in  a  low  voice  of  awe,  "  O  God, 
our  God !  " 

Keir  whispered,  white  with  fear,  "  O  God, 
my  God ! " 

But  Colum  rose,  and  took  a  scourge  from 
where  it  hung  on  the  wall.  "  It  shall  be  for 
peace,  Oran,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile  flit- 
ting like  a  bird  above  the  nest  of  his  grey 
beard ;  "  it  shall  be  for  peace,  Keir !  " 

And  with  that  he  laid  the  scourge  heavily 
upon  the  bent  backs  of  Keir  and  Oran,  nor 
stayed  his  hand,  nor  let  his  three  days'  fast 
weaken  the  deep  piety  that  was  in  the 
might  of  his  arm,  and  because  of  the  glory 
of  God. 

Then,  when  he  was  weary,  peace  came  into 
his  heart,  and  he  sighed  Amen!" 

"  Amen !  "  said  Oran  the  monk. 

"  Amen !  "  said  Keir  the  monk. 

"  And  this  thing  has  been  done,"  said  Col- 
um, "  because  of  your  evil  wish  and  the 
brethren,  that  I  should  break  my  fast,  and 
eat  of  fish,  till  God  will  it.  And  lo,  I  have 
learned  a  mystery.  Ye  shall  all  witness  to  it 
on  the  morrow,  which  is  the  Sabbath." 

221 


lona 

That  night  the  monks  wondered  much. 
Only  Oran  and  Keir  cursed  the  fishes  in  the 
deeps  of  the  sea  and  the  flies  in  the  deeps  of 
the  air. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  sun  was  yellow 
on  the  brown  seaweed,  and  there  was  peace 
on  the  isle  and  upon  the  waters,  Colum  and 
the  brotherhood  went  slowly  towards  the 
sea. 

At  the  meadows  that  are  close  to  the 
sea,  the  saint  stood  still.  All  bowed  their 
heads. 

"  O  winged  things  of  the  air,"  cried  Colum, 
"  draw  near  !  " 

With  that  the  air  was  full  of  the  hum  of 
innumerous  flies,  midges,  bees,  wasps,  moths, 
and  all  winged  insects.  These  settled  upon 
the  monks,  who  moved  not,  but  praised  God 
in   silence. 

"  Glory  and  praise  to  God,"  cried  Colum, 
"  behold  the  Sabbath  of  the  children  of  God 
that  inhabit  the  deeps  of  the  air !  Blessing 
and  peace  be  upon  them." 

"  Peace !  Peace !  "  cried  the  monks,  with 
one  voice. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost !  "  cried  Colum  the  White, 
glad  because  of  the  glory  to  God. 

"An  ainn  an  Athar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  an  Spio- 

222 


lona 

raid  Naoimh,"  cried  the  monks,  bowing  rev- 
erently, and  Oran  and  Keir  deepest  of  all,  be- 
cause they  saw  the  fly  that  was  of  Colum's 
cell  leading  the  whole  host,  as  though  it  were 
its  captain,  and  singing  to  them  a  marvellous 
sweet  song. 

Oran  and  Keir  testified  to  this  thing,  and 
all  were  full  of  awe  and  wonder,  and  Colum 
praised  God. 

Then  the  saints  and  the  brotherhood  moved 
onward  and  went  upon  the  rocks.  When  all 
stood  ankle-deep  in  the  seaweed  that  was 
swaying  in  the  tide,  Colum  cried : 

"  O  finny  creatures  of  the  deep,  draw 
near!  " 

And  with  that  the  whole  sea  shimmered  as 
with  silver  and  gold.  All  the  fishes  of  the 
sea,  and  the  great  eels,  and  the  lobsters  and 
the  crabs,  came  in  a  swift  and  terrible  pro- 
cession.    Great  was  the  glory. 

Then  Colum  cried,  "  O  fishes  of  the  deep, 
who  is  your  king?"  Whereupon  the  herring, 
the  mackerel,  and  the  dogfish  swam  forward, 
and  each  claimed  to  be  king.  But  the  echo 
that  ran  from  wave  to  wave  said.  The  Her- 
ring is  King ! 

Then  Colum  said  to  the  mackerel,  "  Sing 
the  song  that  is  upon  you." 

And  the  mackerel  sang  the  song  of  the 
223 


lona 

wild  rovers  of  the  sea,  and  the  lust  of 
pleasure. 

Then  Colum  said,  "  But  for  God's  mercy,  I 
would  curse  you,  O  false  fish." 

Then  he  spoke  likewise  to  the  dogfish,  and 
the  dogfish  sang  of  slaughter  and  the  chase, 
and  the  joy  of  blood. 

And  Colum  said,  "  Hell  shall  be  your  por- 
tion." 

Then  there  was  peace.  And  the  herring 
said: 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost." 

Whereat  all  that  mighty  multitude,  before 
they  sank  into  the  deep,  waved  their  fins  and 
their  claws,  each  after  its  kind,  and  repeated 
as  with  one  voice: 

"  An  ainm  an  Athar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  an  Spio- 
raid  Naoimh ! " 

And  the  glory  that  was  upon  the  Sound  of 
lona  was  as  though  God  trailed  a  starry  net 
upon  the  waters,  with  a  shining  star  in  every 
little  hollow,  and  a  flowing  moon  of  gold  on 
every  wave. 

Then  Colum  the  White  put  out  both  his 
arms,  and  blessed  the  children  of  God  that 
are  in  the  deeps  of  the  sea  and  that  are  in  the 
deeps  of  the  air. 

That  is  how  Sabbath  came  upon  all  living 
224 


lona 

things  upon  loua  that  is  called  lona,  and 
within  the  air  above  loua,  and  within  the  sea 
that  is  around  loua. 

And  the  glory  is  Colum's. 

To  illustrate  the  history  of  the  island  I 
select  the  following  episode  from  Barbaric 
Tales.  It  deals  with  The  Flight  of  the  Cul- 
dees.  The  name  culdee  is  somewhat  loosely 
used  both  by  mediaeval  and  modern  writers, 
for  it  does  not  appear  to  have  been  given  to 
Brotherhood  of  the  Columban  Church  till 
two  hundred  years  after  Columba's  death. 
The  word  may  be  taken  to  mean  the  Cleric 
of  God ;  perhaps,  later,  it  was  the  equivalent 
of  anchorite.  This  episode  is,  in  date,  about 
A.D.  800  or  soon  after. 

On  the  wane  of  the  moon,  on  the  day  fol- 
lowing the  ruin  of  Bail'-tiorail,  sails  were 
seen  far  east  of  Stromness. 

Olaus  the  White  called  his  men  together. 
The  boats  coming  before  the  wind  were 
doubtless  his  own  galleys  which  he  had  lost 
when  the  south-gale  had  blown  them  against 
Skye;  but  no  man  can  know  when  and  how 
the  gods  may  smile  grimly,  and  let  the  swords 
that  whirl  be  broken,  or  the  spears  that  are 
flat  become  a  hedge  of  death. 
225 


lona 

An  hour  later,  a  startled  word  went  from 
viking  to  viking.  The  galleys  in  the  offing 
were  the  fleet  of  Sweno  the  Hammerer.  Why 
had  he  come  so  far  southward,  and  why  were 
oars  so  swift  and  the  stained  sails  distended 
before  the  wind?     They  were  soon  to  know. 

Sweno  himself  was  the  first  to  land.  A 
great  man  he  was,  broad  and  burly,  with  a 
sword-slash  across  his  face  that  brought  his 
brows  in  a  perpetual  frown  above  his  savage 
blood-shot  eyes. 

In  few  words  he  told  how  he  had  met  a 
galley,  with  only  half  its  crew,  and  of  these 
many  who  were  wounded.  It  was  the  last  of 
the  fleet  of  Haco  the  Laugher.  A  fleet  of 
fifteen  war-birlinns  had  set  out  from  the  Long 
Island,  and  had  given  battle.  Haco  had  gone 
into  the  strife,  laughing  loud  as  was  his  wont, 
and  he  and  all  his  men  had  the  berserk  rage, 
and  fought  witli  joy  and  foam  at  the  mouth. 
Never  had  the  Sword  sung  a  sweeter  song. 

"Well,"  said  Olaus  the  White  grimly, 
"well,  how  did  the  Raven  fly?" 

"  When  Haco  laughed  for  the  last  time,  his 
sword  waving  out  of  the  death-tide  where  he 
sank,  there  was  only  one  galley  left.  No 
more  than  nine  vikings  lived  thereafter  to  tell 
the  tale.  These  nine  we  took  out  of  their 
boat,  which  was  below  waves  soon.  Haco  and 
226 


lona 

his  men  are  all  fighting  the  sea-shadows  by 
now." 

A  loud  snarling  went  from  man  to  man. 
This  became  a  cry  of  rage.  Then  savage 
shouts  filled  the  air.  Swords  were  lifted  up 
against  the  sky ;  and  the  fierce  glitter  of  blue 
eyes  and  the  bristling  of  tawny  beards  were 
fair  to  see,  thought  the  captive  women,  though 
their  hearts  beat  in  their  breasts  like  eaglets 
behind  the  bars  of  a  cage. 

Sweno  the  Hammerer  frowned  a  deep 
frown  when  he  heard  that  Olaus  was  there 
with  only  the  Svart-Alf  out  of  the  galleys 
which  had  gone  the  southward   way. 

"If  the  islanders  come  upon  us  now  with 
their  birlinns  we  shall  have  to  make  a  running 
fight,"  he  said. 

Olaus  laughed. 

"  Ay,  but  the  running  shall  be  after  the 
birlinns,   Sweno." 

"  I  hear  there  are  fifty  and  nine  men  of 
these  Culdees  yonder  under  the  sword-priest, 
Maoliosa?" 

"  It  is  a  true  word.  But  to-night,  after  the 
moon  is  up,  there  shall  be  none." 

At  that,  all  who  heard  laughed,  and  were 
less  heavy  in  their  hearts  because  of  the  slay- 
ing and  drowning  of  Haco  the  Laugher  and 
all  his  crew. 

227 


lona 

"  Where  is  the  woman  Brenda  that  you 
took  ?  "  Olaus  asked,  as  he  stared  at  Sweno's 
boat  and  saw  no  woman  there. 

"  She  is  in  the  sea." 

Olaus  the  White  looked.  It  was  his  eyes 
that  asked. 

"  I  flung  her  into  the  sea  because  she 
laughed  when  she  heard  of  how  the  birlinns 
that  were  under  Somhairle  the  Renegade 
drove  in  upon  our  ships,  and  how  Haco 
laughed  no  more,  and  the  sea  was  red  with 
viking  blood." 

"  She  was  a  woman,  Sweno — and  none 
more  fair  in  the  isles,  after  Morna  that  is 
mine." 

"  Woman  or  no  woman,  I  flung  her  into  the 
sea.  The  Gael  call  us  Gall:  then  I  will  let  no 
Gael  laugh  at  the  Gall.  It  is  enough.  She  is 
drowned.  There  are  always  women :  one 
here,  one  there — it  is  but  a  wave  blown  this 
way  or  that." 

At  this  moment  a  viking  came  running 
across  the  ruined  town  with  tidings.  Maoliosa 
and  his  culdees  were  crowding  into  a  great 
birlinn.  Perhaps  they  were  coming  to  give 
battle:  perhaps  they  were  for  sailing  away 
from  that  place. 

Olaus  and  Sweno  stared  across  the  fjord. 
At  first  they  knew  not  what  to  do.  If  Mao- 
228 


lona 

liosa  thought  of  battle  he  would  hardly  choose 
that  hour  and  place.  Or  was  it  that  he  knew 
the  Gael  were  coming  in  force,  and  that  the 
vikings  were  caught  in  a  trap? 

At  last  it  was  clear.  Sweno  gave  a  great 
laugh. 

"  By  the  blood  of  Odin,"  he  cried,  "  they 
come  to  sue  for  peace !  " 

Filled  with  white-robed  culdees,  the  bir- 
linn  drew  slowly  across  the  loch.  A  tall,  old 
man  stood  at  the  prow,  with  streaming  hair 
and  beard,  white  as  sea-foam.  In  his  right 
hand  he  grasped  a  great  Cross,  whereon 
Christ  was  crucified. 

The  vikings  drew  close  to  one  another. 

"  Hail  them  in  their  own  tongue,  Sweno," 
said  Olaus. 

The  Hammerer  moved  to  the  water-edge, 
as  the  birlinn  stopped,  a  short  arrow-flight 
away. 

"  Ho,  there,  priests  of  the  Christ-faith !  " 

"What  would  you,  viking?"  It  was  Mao- 
liosa  himself  that  spoke. 

"  Why  do  you  come  here  among  us,  you 
that  are  Maoliosa  ?  " 

"  To  win  you  and  yours  to  God,  Pagan." 

"  Is  it  madness  that  is  upon  you,  old  man? 
We  have  swords  and  spears  here,  if  we  lack 
hymns  and  prayers." 

229 


lona 

All  this  time  Olaus  kept  a  wary  watch  in- 
land and  seaward,  for  he  feared  that  Mao- 
liosa  came  because  of  an  ambush. 

Truly  the  old  monk  was  mad.  He  had  told 
his  culdees  that  God  would  prevail,  and  that 
the  pagans  would  melt  away  before  the  Cross. 
The  ebb-tide  was  running  swift.  Even  while 
Sweno  spoke,  the  birlinn  touched  a  low  sea- 
hidden  ledge  of  rock.  A  cry  of  consternation 
went  up  from  the  white-robes.  Loud  laugh- 
ter came  from  the  vikings. 

"  Arrows !  "  cried  Olaus. 

With  that  threescore  men  took  their  bows. 
A  hail  of  death-shafts  fell.  Many  pierced  the 
water,  but  some  pierced  the  necks  and  hearts 
of  the  culdees. 

Maoliosa  himself,  stood  in  death  trans- 
fixed to  the  mast.  With  a  scream  the  monks 
swept  their  oars  backward.  Then  they  leaped 
to  their  feet,  and  changed  their  place,  and 
rowed  for  life. 

The  summer-sailors  sprang  into  their  gal- 
ley. Sweno  the  Hammerer  was  at  the  bow. 
The  foam  curled  and  hissed.  The  birlinn  of 
the  culdees  grided  upon  the  opposite  shore  at 
the  moment  when  Sweno  brought  down  his 
battle-axe  upon  the  monk  who  steered.  The 
man  was  cleft  to  the  shoulder.  Sweno 
swayed  with  the  blow,  stumbled,  and  fell  head- 
230 


lona 

long  into  the  sea.  A  culdee  thrust  at  him  with 
an  oar.  and  pinned  him  among  the  sea-tangle. 
Thus  died  Sweno  the  Hammerer. 

Like  a  flock  of  sheep  the  white-robes  leaped 
upon  the  shore.  Yet  Olaus  was  quicker  than 
they.  With  a  score  of  vikings  he  raced  to 
the  Church  of  the  Cells,  and  gained  the  sanc- 
tuary. The  monks  uttered  a  cry  of  despair, 
and,  turning,  fled  across  the  sands.  Olaus 
counted  them.    There  were  now  forty  in  all. 

"  Let  forty  men  follow,"  he  cried. 

The  monks  fled  this  way  and  that.  Olaus, 
and  those  who  watched,  laughed  to  see  how 
they  stumbled,  because  of  their  robes.  One 
by  one  fell,  sword-cleft  or  spear-thrust.  The 
sand-dunes  were  red. 

Soon  there  were  fewer  than  a  score — then 
twelve  only — ten  ! 

"  Bring  them  back !  "  Olaus  shouted. 

When  the  ten  fugitives  were  captured  and 
brought  back,  Olaus  took  the  crucifix  that 
Maoliosa  had  raised,  and  held  it  before  each 
in  turn. 

"Smite!"  he  said  to  the  first  monk.  But 
the  man  would  not. 

"Smite!"  he  said  to  the  second;  but  he 
would  not.     And  so  it  was  to  the  tenth. 

"Good!"    said    Olaus    the    White;    "they 
shall  witness  to  their  God." 
231 


lona 

With  that  he  bade  his  vikings  break  up  the 
birlinn,  and  drive  the  planks  into  the  ground 
and  shore  them  up  with  logs.  When  this 
was  done  he  crucified  each  culdee.  With 
nails  and  with  ropes  he  did  unto  each  what 
their  God  had  suffered.  Then  all  were  left 
there  by  the  water-side. 

That  night,  when  Olaus  the  White  and  the 
laughing  Morna  left  the  great  bonfire  where 
the  vikings  sang  and  drank  horn  after  horn 
of  strong  ale,  they  stood  and  looked  across 
the  strait.  In  the  moonlight,  upon  the  dim 
verge  of  the  island  shore,  they  could  see  ten 
crosses.  On  each  was  a  motionless  white 
splatch. 

Once  more,  for  an  instance  of  the  grafting 
of  Christian  thought  and  imagery  on  pagan 
thought  and  imagery,  I  take  a  few  pages  of 
the  introductory  part  to  the  story  of  "  The 
Woman  with  the  Net,"  in  a  later  volume.* 
They  tell  of  a  young  monk  who,  inspired  by 
Colum's  holy  example,  went  out  of  lona  as 
a  missionary  to  the  Pictish  heathen  of  the 
north. 

When  Artan  had  kissed  the  brow  of  every 
white-robed  brother  on  lona,  and  had  been 

"  The  Dominion  of  Dreams,  ist  Ed. 
232 


lona 

thrice  kissed  by  the  aged  Colum,  his  heart 
was  filled  with  gladness. 

It  was  late  summer,  and  in  the  afternoon- 
light  peace  lay  on  the  green  waters  of  the 
Sound,  on  the  green  grass  of  the  dunes,  on 
the  domed  wicker-woven  cells  of  the  culdees 
over  whom  the  holy  Colum  ruled,  and  on 
the  little  rock-strewn  hill  which  rose  above 
where  stood  Colum's  wattled  church  of  sun- 
baked mud.  The  abbot  walked  slowly  by  the 
side  of  the  young  man.  Colum  was  tall, 
with  hair  long  and  heavy  but  white  as  the 
canna,  and  with  a  beard  that  hung  low  on 
his  breast,  grey  as  the  moss  on  old  firs.  His 
blue  eyes  were  tender.  The  youth — for 
though  he  was  a  grown  man  he  seemed  a 
youth  beside  Colum — had  beauty.  He  was 
tall  and  comely,  with  yellow  curling  hair,  and 
dark-blue  eyes,  and  a  skin  so  white  that  it 
troubled  some  of  the  monks  who  dreamed 
old  dreams  and  washed  them  away  in  tears 
and  scourgings. 

"  You  have  the  bitter  fever  of  youth  upon 
you,  Artan,"  said  Colum,  as  they  crossed  the 
dunes  beyond  Dun-I ;  "  but  you  have  no  fear, 
and  you  will  be  a  flame  among  these  Pictish 
idolaters,  and  you  will  be  a  lamp  to  show 
them  the  way." 

"  And  when  I  come  again,  there  will  be 

233 


lona 

clappings  of  hands,  and  hymns,  and  many 
rejoicings?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  you  will  come  again,"  said 
Colum,  "  The  wild  people  of  these  north- 
lands  will  bum  you,  or  crucify  you,  or  put 
you  upon  the  crahslat,  or  give  you  thirst 
and  hunger  till  you  die.  It  will  be  a  great 
joy  for  you  to  die  like  that,  Artan,  my 
son?" 

"  Ay,  a  great  joy,"  answered  the  young 
monk,  but  with  his  eyes  dreaming  away  from 
his  words. 

Silence  was  between  them  as  they  neared 
the  cove  where  a  large  coracle  lay,  with  three 
men  in  it. 

"  Will  God  be  coming  to  lona  when  I  am 
away  ?  "  asked  Artan. 

Colum  stared  at  him. 

"  Is  it  likely  that  God  would  come  here  in 
a  coracle  ?  "  he  asked,  with  scornful  eyes. 

The  young  man  looked  abashed.  For 
sure,  God  would  not  come  in  a  coracle,  just 
as  he  himself  might  come.  He  knew  by  that 
how  Colum  had  reproved  him.  He  would 
come  in  a  cloud  of  fire,  and  would  be  seen 
from  far  and  near.  Artan  wondered  if  the 
place  he  was  going  to  was  too  far  north  for 
him  to  see  that  greatness;  but  he  feared  to 
ask. 

234 


lona 

"Give  me  a  new  name,"  he  asked;  "give 
me  a  new  name,  my  father." 

"What  name  will  you  have?" 

"  Servant  of  Mary." 

"  So  be  it,  Artan  Gille-Mhoire." 

With  that  Colum  kissed  him  and  bade  fare- 
well, and  Artan  sat  down  in  the  coracle,  and 
covered  his  head  with  his  mantle,  and  wept 
and  prayed. 

The  last  word  he  heard  was,  Peace! 

"  That  is  a  good  word,  and  a  good  thing," 
he  said  to  himself;  "and  because  I  am  the 
Servant  of  Mary,  and  the  Brother  of  Jesu  the 
Son,  I  will  take  peace  to  the  Cruitnc,  who 
know  nothing  of  that  blessing  of  the  bless- 
ings." 

When  he  unfolded  his  mantle,  he  saw  that 
the  coracle  was  already  far  from  lona.  The 
south  wind  blew,  and  the  tides  swept  north- 
ward, and  the  boat  moved  swiftly  across  the 
water.  The  sea  was  ashine  with  froth  and 
small  waves  leaping  like  lambs. 

In  the  boat  were  Thorkeld,  a  helot  of 
lona,  and  two  dark  wild-eyed  men  of  the 
north.  They  were  Picts,  but  could  speak  the 
tongue  of  the  Gael.  Myrdu,  the  Pictish  king 
of  Skye,  had  sent  them  to  lona,  to  bring  back 
from  Colum  a  culdee  who  could  show  won- 
ders. 

235 


lona 

"And  tell  the  chief  Druid  of  the  God- 
men,"  Myrdu  had  said,  "  that  if  his  culdee 
does  not  show  me  good  wonders,  and  so  make 
me  believe  in  his  two  gods  and  the  woman, 
I  will  put  an  ash-shaft  through  his  body  from 
the  hips  and  out  at  his  mouth,  and  send  him 
back  on  the  north  tide  to  the  Isle  of  the 
White-Robes."  The  sun  was  already  among 
the  outer  isles  when  the  coracle  passed  near 
the  Isle  of  Columns.  A  great  noise  was  in 
the  air:  the  noise  of  the  waves  in  the  caverns, 
and  the  noise  of  the  tide,  like  sea-wolves 
growling,  and  like  bulls  bellowing  in  a  narrow 
pass  of  the  hills. 

A  sudden  current  caught  the  boat,  and  it 
began  to  drift  towards  great  reefs  white  with 
ceaseless  torn  streams. 

Thorkeld  leaned  from  the  helm,  and 
shouted  to  the  two  Picts.  They  did  not  stir, 
but  sat  staring,  idle  with  fear. 

Artan  knew  now  that  it  was  as  Colum  had 
said.     God  would  give  him  glory  soon. 

So  he  took  the  little  clarsach  he  had  for 
hymns,  for  he  was  the  best  harper  on  lona, 
and  struck  the  strings,  and  sang.  But  the 
Latin  words  tangled  in  his  throat,  and  he 
knew  too  that  the  men  in  the  boat  would  not 
understand  what  he  sang;  also  that  the  older 
gods  still  came  far  south,  and  in  the  caves  of 
236 


lona 

the  Isle  of  Columns  were  demons.  There 
was  only  one  tongue  common  to  all;  and 
since  God  had  wisdom  beyond  that  of  Colum 
himself,  He  would  know  the  song  in  Gaelic 
as  well  as  though  sung  in  Latin. 

So  Artan  let  the  wind  take  his  broken 
hymn,  and  he  made  a  song  of  his  own,  and 
sang: 

O  Heavenly  Mary,  Queen  of  the  Elements, 
And  you,  Brigit  the  fair  with  the  little  harp, 
And  all  the  saints,  and  all  the  old  gods 
(And  it  is  not  one  of  them  I'd  be  disowning), 
Speak  to  the  Father,  that  he  may  save  us  from 
drowning. 

Then  seeing  that  the  boat  drifted  closer, 
he  sang  again: 

Save   us   from   the   rocks   and   the   sea,    Queen   of 

Heaven! 
And  remember  that  I  am  a  Culdee  of  lona. 
And  that  Colum  has  sent  me  to  the  Cruitn^ 
To  sing  them  the  song  of  peace  lest  they  be  damned 

for  ever! 

Thorkeld  laughed  at  that. 

"  Can  the  woman  put  swimming  upon 
you?  '■  he  said  roughly.  "  I  would  rather 
have  the  good  fin  of  a  great  fish  now  than 
any  woman  in  the  skies." 

237 


lona 

"  You  will  burn  in  hell  for  that,"  said  Ar- 
tan,  the  holy  zeal  warm  at  his  heart. 

But  Thorkeld  answered  nothing.  His 
hand  was  on  the  helm,  his  eyes  on  the  foam- 
ing rocks.  Besides,  what  had  he  to  do  with 
the  culdee's  hell  or  heaven?  When  he  died, 
he,  who  was  a  man  of  Lochlann,  would  go  to 
his  own  place. 

One  of  the  dark  men  stood,  holding  the 
mast.  His  eyes  shone.  Thick  words  swung 
from  his  lips,  like  seaweed  thrown  out  of  a 
hollow  by  an  ebbing  wave. 

The  coracle  swerved,  and  the  four  men 
were  wet  with  the  heavy  spray. 

Thorkeld  put  his  oar  in  the  water,  and  the 
swaying  craft  righted. 

"  Glory  to  God,"  said  Artan. 

"  There  is  no  glory  to  your  god  in  this," 
said  Thorkeld  scornfully.  "  Did  you  not 
hear  what  Necta  sang?  He  sang  to  the  wom- 
an in  there  that  drags  men  into  the  caves, 
and  throws  their  bones  on  the  next  tide.  He 
put  an  incantation  upon  her,  and  she  shrank, 
and  the  boat  slid  away  from  the  rocks." 

"  That  is  a  true  thing,"  thought  Artan. 
He  wondered  if  it  was  because  he  had  not 
sung  his  hymn  in  the  holy  Latin. 

When  the  last  flame  died  out  of  the  west, 
and  the  stars  came  like  sheep  gathering  at 
238 


lona 

the  call  of  the  shepherd,  Artan  remembered 
that  he  had  not  said  his  prayers  and  sang  the 
vesper  hymn. 

He  lay  back  and  listened.  There  were  no 
bells  calling  across  the  water.  He  looked 
into  the  depths.  It  was  Manann's  kingdom, 
and  he  had  never  heard  that  God  was  there; 
but  he  looked.  Then  he  stared  into  the  dark- 
blue  star-strewn  sky. 

Suddenly   he  touched  Thorkeld. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  *'  how  far  north  has 
the  Cross  of  Christ  come?" 

"  By  the  sea  way  it  has  not  come  here  yet. 
Murdoch  the  Freckled  came  with  it  this  way, 
but  he  was  pulled  into  the  sea,  and  he  died." 

"Who  pulled  him  into  the  sea?" 

Thorkeld  stared  into  the  running  wave. 
He  had  no  words. 

Artan  lay  still  for  a  long  while. 

"  It  will  go  ill  with  me,"  he  thought,  "  if 
Mary  cannot  see  me  so  far  away  from  lona, 
and  if  God  will  not  listen  to  me.  Colum 
should  have  known  that,  and  given  me  a  holy 
leaf  with  the  fair  branching  letters  on  it,  and 
the  Latin  words  that  are  the  words  of  God." 

Then  he  spoke  to  the  man  who  had  sung. 

"  Do  you  know  of  Mary,  and  God,  and  the 
Son,  and  the  Spirit?" 

"  You  have  too  many  Gods,  Culdee,"  an- 

239 


lona 

swered  the  Pict  sullenly:  "  for  of  these  one  is 
your  god's  son,  and  the  other  is  the  woman 
his  mother,  and  the  third  is  the  ghost  of  an 
ancestor." 

Artan  frowned. 

"  The  curse  of  the  God  of  Peace  upon  you 
for  that,"  he  said  angrily;  "  do  you  know  that 
you  have  hell  for  your  dwelling-place  if  you 
speak  evil  of  God  the  Father,  and  the  Son, 
and  the  Mother  of  God?  " 

"  How  long  have  they  been  in  lona,  White- 
Robe?" 

The  man  spoke  scornfully.  Artan  knew 
they  had  not  been  there  many  years.  He 
had  no  words. 

"  My  fathers  worshipped  the  Sun  on  the 
Holy  Isle  before  ever  your  great  Druid  that  is 
called  Colum  crossed  the  Moyle.  Were  your 
three  gods  in  the  coracle  with  Colum?  They 
were  not  on  the  Holy  Isle  when  he  came." 

"  They  were  coming  there,"  answered  Ar- 
tan confusedly.  "  It  is  a  long,  long  way 
from — from — from  the  place  they  were  sailing 
from." 

Necta  listened  sullenly. 

"  Let  them  stay  on  lona,"  he  said :  "  gods 

though  they  be,  it  would  fare  ill  with  them  if 

they  came  upon  the  Woman  with  the  Net." 

Then  he  turned  on  his  side,  and  lay  by  the 

240 


lona 

man  Darach,  who  was  staring  at  the  moon 
and  muttering  words  that  neither  Artan  nor 
Thorkeld  knew. 

A  white  calm  fell.  The  boat  lay  like  a 
leaf  on  a  silent  pool.  There  was  nothing 
between  that  dim  wilderness  and  the  vast 
sweeping  blackness  filled  with  quivering 
stars,  but  the  coracle,  that  a  wave  could 
crush. 

At  times,  I  doubt  not,  there  must  have 
been  weaker  brethren  among  these  simple 
and  devoted  Culdees  of  lona,  though  in 
Colum's  own  day  there  was  probably  none 
(unless  it  were  Oran)  who  was  not  the  visible 
outward  shrine  of  a  pure  flame. 

Thinking  of  such  an  one,  and  not  without 
furtive  pagan  sympathy,  I  wrote  the  other 
day  these  lines,  which  I  may  also  add  here 
as  a  further  side-light  upon  that  half-Pagan, 
half-Christian  basis  upon  which  the  Columban 
Church  of  lona  stood. 

Balva  the  old  monk  I  am  called :  when  I  was  young, 

Balva  Honeymouth. 
That  was  before  Colum  the  White  came  to  lona  in 

the  West. 
She  whom  I  loved  was  a  woman  whom  I  won  out  of 

the  South, 
And  I  had  a  good  heaven  with  my  lips  on  hers  and 

with  breast  to  breast. 
241 


lona 

Balva  the  old  monk  I  am  called :  were  it  not  for  the 

fear 
That  the  soul  of  Colum  the  White  would  meet  my 

soul  in  the  Narrows 
That  sever  the  living  and  dead,  I  would  rise  up  from 

here, 
And  go  back  to  where  men  pray  with  spears  and 

arrows. 

Balva  the  old  monk  I  am  called:  ugh!  ugh!  the  cold 

bell  of  the  matins — 'tis  dav/n! 
Sure  it's  a  dream  I  have  had  that  I  was  in  a  warm 

wood  with  the  sun  ashine, 
And  that  against  me  in  the  pleasant  greenness  was 

a  soft  fawn. 
And  a  voice  that  whispered  "Balva  Honeymouth, 

drink,  I  am  thy  wine!" 

As  I  write,^  here  on  the  hill-slope  of  Dun- 
I,  the  sound  of  the  furtive  wave  is  as  the 
sighing  in  a  shell.  I  am  alone  between  sea 
and  sky,  for  there  is  no  other  on  this  boul- 
dered  height,  nothing  visible  but  a  single 
blue  shadow  that  slowly  sails  the  hillside. 
The  bleating  of  lambs  and  ewes,  the  lowing 
of  kine,  these  come  up  from  the  Machar  that 
lies  between  the  west  slopes  and  the  shore- 
less sea  to  the  west;  these  ascend  as  the  very 
smoke  of  sound.  All  round  the  island  there 
is  a  continuous  breathing;  deeper  and  more 

•  See  Notes,  p.  429. 
242 


lona 

prolonged  on  the  west,  where  the  open  sea 
is;  but  audible  everywhere.  The  seals  on 
Soa  are  even  now  putting  their  breasts 
against  the  running  tide;  for  I  see  a  flashing 
of  fins  here  and  there  in  patches  at  the  north 
end  of  the  Sound,  and  already  from  the  ruddy 
granite  shores  of  the  Ross  there  is  a  congre- 
gation of  seafowl — gannets  and  guillemots, 
skuas  and  herring-gulls,  the  long-necked 
northern  diver,  the  tern,  the  cormorant.  In 
the  sunblaze,  the  waters  of  the  Sound  dance 
their  blue  bodies  and  swirl  their  flashing 
white  hair  o'  foam;  and,  as  I  look,  they  seem 
to  me  like  children  of  the  wind  and  the  sun- 
shine, leaping  and  running  in  these  flowing 
pastures,  with  a  laughter  as  sweet  against  the 
ears  as  the  voices  of  children  at  play. 

The  joy  of  life  vibrates  everywhere.  Yet 
the  Weaver  does  not  sleep,  but  only  dreams. 
He  loves  the  sun-drowned  shadows.  They 
are  invisible  thus,  but  they  are  there,  in  the 
sunlight  itself.  Sure,  they  may  be  heard: 
as,  an  hour  ago,  when  on  my  way  hither  by 
the  Stairway  of  the  Kings — for  so  sometimes 
they  call  here  the  ancient  stones  of  the 
mouldered  princes  of  long  ago — I  heard  a 
mother  moaning  because  of  the  son  that  had 
had  to  go  over-sea  and  leave  her  in  her  old 
age;  and  heard  also  a  child  sobbing,  because 

243 


tona 

of  the  sorrow  of  childhood — that  sorrow  so 
unfathomable,  so  incommunicable.  And  yet 
not  a  stone's-throw  from  where  I  lie,  half 
hidden  beneath  an  overhanging  rock,  is  the 
Pool  of  Healing.  To  this  small,  black-brown 
tarn,  pilgrin»  of  every  generation,  for  hun- 
dreds of  years,  have  come.  Solitary,  these; 
not  only  because  the  pilgrim  to  the  Fount  of 
Eternal  Youth  must  fare  hither  alone,  and  at 
dawn,  so  as  to  touch  the  healing  water  the 
moment  the  first  sunray  quickens  it — but  sol- 
itary, also,  because  those  who  go  in  quest  of 
this  Fount  of  Youth  are  the  dreamers  and  the 
Children  of  Dream,  and  these  are  not  many, 
and  few  come  now  to  this  lonely  place.  Yet, 
an  Isle  of  Dream  lona  is,  indeed.  Here  the 
last  sun-worshippers  bowed  before  the  Ris- 
ing of  God ;  here  Columba  and  his  hymning 
priests  laboured  and  brooded;  and  here  Oran 
or  his  kin  dreamed  beneath  the  monkish 
cowl  that  pagan  dream  of  his.  Here,  too,  the 
eyes  of  Fionn  and  Oisin,  and  of  many  an- 
other of  the  heroic  men  and  women  of  the 
Fianna,  may  have  lingered;  here  the  Pict  and 
the  Celt  bowed  beneath  the  yoke  of  the  Norse 
pirate,  who,  too,  left  his  dreams,  or  rather  his 
strangely  beautiful  soul-rainbows,  as  a  herit- 
age to  the  stricken;  here,  for  century  after 
century,  the  Gael  has  lived,  suffered,  joyed, 
244 


lona 

dreamed  his  impossible,  beautiful  dream;  as 
here,  now,  he  still  lives,  still  suffers  patiently, 
still  dreams,  and  through  all  and  over  all, 
broods  upon  the  incalculable  mysteries.  He 
is  an  elemental,  among  the  elemental  forces. 
He  knows  the  voices  of  wind  and  sea:  and 
it  is  because  the  Fount  of  Youth  upon  Dun- 
I  of  lona  is  not  the  only  wellspring  of  peace, 
that  the  Gael  can  front  destiny  as  he  does, 
and  can  endure.  Who  knows  where  its  tribu- 
taries are?  They  may  be  in  your  heart,  or 
in  mine,  and  in  a  myriad  others. 

I  would  that  the  birds  of  Angus  Og 
might,  for  once,  be  changed,  not,  as  fabled, 
into  the  kisses  of  love,  but  into  doves  of 
peace,  that  they  might  fly  into  the  green 
world,  and  nest  there  in  many  hearts,  in 
miany  minds,  crooning  their  incommunicable 
song  of  joy  and  hope. 

A  doomed  and  passing  race.  I  have  been 
taken  to  task  for  these  words.  But  they  are 
true,  in  the  deep  reality  where  they  obtain. 
Yes,  but  true  only  in  one  sense,  however  vital 
that  is.  The  Breton's  eyes  are  slowly  turning 
from  the  enchanted  West,  and  slowly  his  ears 
are  forgetting  the  whisper  of  the  wind  around 
menhir  and  dolmen.  The  Manxman  has 
ever   been   the   mere   yeoman   of   the   Celtic 

245 


lona 

chivalry;  but  even  his  rude  dialect  perishes 
year  by  year.  In  Wales,  a  great  tradition 
survives;  in  Ireland,  a  supreme  tradition 
fades  through  sunset-hued  horizons;  in  Celtic 
Scotland,  a  passionate  regret,  a  despairing 
love  and  longing,  narrows  yearly  before  a 
dull  and  incredibly  selfish  alienism.  The 
Celt  has  at  last  reached  his  horizon.  There 
is  no  shore  beyond.  He  knows  it.  This 
has  been  the  burden  of  his  song  since  Mal- 
vina  led  the  blind  Oisin  to  his  grave  by  the 
sea :  "  Even  the  Children  of  Light  must  go 
down  into  darkness."  But  this  apparition  of 
a  passing  race  is  no  more  than  the  fulfilment 
of  a  glorious  resurrection  before  our  very 
eyes.  For  the  genius  of  the  Celtic  race 
stands  out  now  with  averted  torch,  and  the 
light  of  it  is  a  glory  before  the  eyes,  and  the 
flame  of  it  is  blown  into  the  hearts  of  the 
stronger  people.  The  Celt  fades,  but  his 
spirit  rises  in  the  heart  and  the  mind  of  the 
Anglo-Celtic  peoples,  with  whom  are  the  des- 
tinies of  generations  to  come. 

I  stop,  and  look  seaward  from  this  hillslope 
of  Dijn-L  Yes,  even  in  this  Isle  of  Joy,  as 
it  seems  in  this  dazzle  of  golden  light  and 
splashing  wave,  there  is  the  like  mortal  gloom 
and  immortal  mystery  which  moved  the 
minds  of  the  old  seers  and  bards.  Yonder, 
246 


lona 

where  that  thin  spray  quivers  against  the 
thyme-set  cHfif,  is  the  Spouting  Cave,  where 
to  this  day  the  Mar-Tarbh,  dread  creature  of 
the  sea,  swims  at  the  full  of  the  tide.  Be- 
yond, out  of  sight  behind  these  craggy 
steeps,  is  Port-na-Churaich,  where,  a  thou- 
sand years  ago,  Columba  landed  in  his  cor- 
acle. Here,  eastward,  is  the  landing-place, 
for  the  dead  of  old,  brought  hence  out  of 
Christendom  for  sacred  burial  in  the  Isle  of 
the  Saints.  All  the  story  of  the  Gael  is  here, 
lona  is  the  microcosm  of  the  Gaelic  world. 

Last  night,  about  the  hour  of  the  sun's 
going,  I  lay  upon  the  heights  near  the  Cave, 
overlooking  the  Machar — the  sandy,  rock- 
frontiered  plain  of  duneland  on  the  west  side 
of  lona,  exposed  to  the  Atlantic.  There  was 
neither  bird  nor  beast,  no  living  thing  to  see, 
save  one  solitary  human  creature.  The  man 
toiled  at  kelp-burning.  I  watched  the  smoke 
till  it  merged  into  the  sea-mist  that  came 
creeping  swiftly  out  of  the  north,  and  down 
from  Dun-I  eastward.  At  last  nothing  was 
visible.  The  mist  shrouded  everything.  I 
could  hear  the  dull,  rhythmic  beat  of  the 
waves.  That  was  all.  No  sound,  nothing 
visible. 

It  was,  or  seemed,  a  long  while  before  a 
rapid  thud-thud  trampled  the  heavy  air. 
247 


lona 

Then  I  heard  the  rush,  the  stamping  and 
neighing,  of  some  young  mares,  pasturing 
there,  as  they  raced  to  and  fro,  bewildered  or 
perchance  in  play.  A  glimpse  I  caught  of 
three,  with  flying  manes  and  tails;  the  others 
were  blurred  shadows  only.  A  swirl,  and  the 
mist  disclosed  them;  a  swirl,  and  the  mist 
enfolded  them  again.  Then,  silence  once 
more. 

Abruptly,  though  not  for  a  long  time  there- 
after, the  mist   rose   and  drifted  seaward. 

All  was  as  before.  The  kelp-burner  still 
stood,  straking  the  smouldering  seaweed. 
Above  him  a  column  ascended,  bluely  spiral, 
dusked  with  shadow. 

The  kelp-burner:  who  was  he  but  the  Gael 
of  the  Isles?  Who  but  the  Gael  in  his  old- 
world  sorrow?  The  mist  falls  and  the  mist 
rises.  He  is  there  all  the  same,  behind  it, 
part  of  it;  and  the  column  of  smoke  is  the 
incense  out  of  his  longing  heart  that  desires 
Heaven  and  Earth,  and  is  dowered  only  with 
poverty  and  pain,  hunger  and  weariness,  a 
little  isle  of  the  seas,  a  great  hope,  and  the 
love  of  love. 

But  ...  to  the  island-story  once  more! 
Some  day,  surely,  the  historian  of  lona  will 
appear. 

248 


lona 

How  many  "  history-books  "  there  are  like 
dead  leaves.  The  simile  is  a  travesty.  There 
is  no  little  russet  leaf  of  the  forest  that  could 
not  carry  more  real,  more  intimate  know- 
ledge. There  is  no  leaf  that  could  not  reveal 
mystery  of  form,  mystery  of  colour,  wonder 
of  structure,  secret  of  growth,  the  law  of 
harmony;  that  could  not  testify  to  birth,  and 
change,  and  decay,  and  death;  and  what  his- 
tory tells  us  more? — that  could  not,  to  the 
inward  ear,  bring  the  sound  of  the  south 
wind  making  a  greenness  in  the  woods  of 
Spring,  the  west  wind  calling  his  brown  and 
red  flocks  to  the  fold. 

What  a  book  it  will  be!  It  will  reveal  to 
us  the  secret  of  what  Oisin  sang,  what 
Merlin  knew,  what  Columba  dreamed,  what 
Adamnan  hoped:  what  this  little  "lamp  of 
Christ  "  was  to  pagan  Europe ;  what  incense 
of  testimony  it  flung  upon  the  winds;  what 
saints  and  heroes  went  out  of  it ;  how  the 
dust  of  kings  and  princes  was  brought  there 
to  mingle  with  its  sands;  how  the  noble  and 
the  ignoble  came  to  it  across  long  seas  and 
perilous  countries.  It  will  tell,  too,  how  the 
Danes  ravaged  the  isles  of  the  west,  and  left 
not  only  their  seed  for  the  strengthening  of 
an  older  race,  but  imageries  and  words, 
words  and  imageries  so  alive  to-day  that  the 
249 


lona 

listener  in  the  mind  may  hear  the  cries  of  the 
viking  above  the  voice  of  the  Gael  and  the 
more  ancient  tongue  of  the  Pict.  It  will  tell, 
too,  how  the  nettle  came  to  shed  her  snow 
above  kings'  heads,  and  the  thistle  to  wave 
where  bishops'  mitres  stood;  how  a  simple 
people  out  of  the  hills  and  moors,  remember- 
ing ancient  wisdom  or  blindly  cherishing  for- 
gotten symbols,  sought  here  the  fount  of 
youth;  and  how,  slowly,  a  long  sleep  fell 
upon  the  island,  and  only  the  grasses  shaken 
in  the  wind,  and  the  wind  itself,  and  the 
broken  shadows  of  dreams  in  the  minds  of 
the  old,  held  the  secret  of  lona.  And,  at  the 
last — with  what  lift,  with  what  joy — it  will  tell 
how  once  more  the  doves  of  hope  and  peace 
have  passed  over  its  white  sands,  this  little 
holy  land!  This  little  holy  land!  Ah,  white 
doves,  come  again!  A  thousand  thousand 
wait. 


250 


BY  SUNDOWN  SHORES 


'Cette  dnte  qui  se  lamente 
En  cette  plaine  dormante 

C'est  la  notre,  n'est-ce  pas  f 
La  ntienne,  dis,  et  la  tienne, 
Dont  s'exhale  Vhumhle  antienne 

Par  ce  tiede  soir,  tout  bas  ?" 


By  Sundown   Shores 


'"N  hano  ann  Tad,  ar  Mab  hac  ar  Spered-Zantel, 
Iloman'  zo'r  ganaouenn  zavet  en  Breiz-Izel! 
Zavet  gant  eur  paour-kez,  en  Ar-goat,  en  Ar-vor, 
Kanet  anez-hi,  pewienn,  hac  ho  pezo  digor." 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy 
Spirit 
This  song  of  mine  was  raised  in  my  Breton  Father- 
land, 
In  Argoat  forest-clad,  in  Arvor  of  the  grey  wave: 
Sing  it,  wayfarers,  and  all  gates  will  open  before 
you." 

I  do  not  know  the  name  of  the  obscure  min- 
strel who  sang  this  song,  as  he  passed  from 
village  to  village,  by  the  coasts,  along  the 
heath-lands  of  Brittany.  But  there  are  poets 
who  have  no  name  and  no  country,  because 
they  are  named  by  the  secret  name  of  the 
longing  of  many  minds,  and  mysteriously 
come  from  and  pass  to  the  Land  of  Heart's 
Desire,  which  is  their  own  land.  This  wan- 
dering Breton  minstrel  is  of  that  company. 
His  sone  is  familiar.  I  have  heard  it  where 
Connemara  breaks  in  grey  rock  and  sudden 
pastures  to  the  sea:  where  only  the  wind  and 

253 


v.-> 


By  Sundown  Shores 

the  heather  people  the  soHtudes  of  Argyll: 
where  the  silent  Isles  shelve  to  perpetual 
foam.  He  speaks  for  all  his  brotherhood  of 
Armorica:  he  speaks  also  for  the  greater 
brotherhood  of  his  race,  the  broken  peoples 
who  now  stand  upon  the  sundown  shores, 
from  wild  Ushant  to  the  clifTs  of  Achil,  from 
St.  Bride's  Bay  to  solitary  St.  Kilda.  He  is 
not  only  the  genius  of  Arvor,  daughter  of 
dreams,  but  the  genius  of  a  race  whose  fare- 
well is  in  a  tragic  lighting  of  torches  of 
beauty  around  its  grave.  For  it  is  the  soul 
of  the  Celt  who  wanders  homeless  to-day, 
with  his  pathetic  burthen  that  his  sone  was 
made  by  ancestral  woods,  by  the  unchanging 
sea;  dreaming  the  enchanted  air  will  open 
all  doors.  Alas!  few  doors  open:  the  way- 
farer must  not  tarry.  Memories  and  echoes 
he  may  leave,  but  he  must  turn  his  face. 
Grey  dolmen  and  grey  menhir  already  stand 
there,  by  the  last  shores,  memorials  of  his 
destiny. 

The  ancient  Gaels  believed  that  in  the 
western  ocean  there  was  an  island  called  Hy 
Brasil,  where  all  that  was  beautiful  and  mys- 
terious lived  beyond  the  pillars  of  the  rain- 
bow. The  legendary  romances  of  the  Celtic 
races  may  be  described  as  the  Hy  Brasil  of 
literature. 

254 


By  Sundown  Shores 

In  the  Celtic  commune  there  are  many- 
legendary  tales  which,  but  for  the  accident  of 
names  and  local  circumstances,  are  identical. 
The  familiar  Highland  legend  of  the  children 
who,  bathing  in  a  mountain  loch,  were  car- 
ried off  by  a  water-horse,  has  its  counterpart 
in  Connemara,  in  Merioneth,  and  in  Finis- 
tere,  though  in  the  Welsh  recital  the  children 
are  the  victims  of  a  dragon,  and  in  the  Breton 
legend  the  monster  is  a  boar.  For  that  mat- 
ter, this  elemental  tale  has  its  roots  in  the 
east,  and  Macedonia  and  the  Himalaya  re- 
tain the  memory  of  what  Aryan  wagoners 
told  by  the  camp-fires  during  their  centuries- 
long  immigration  into  Europe.  Whether, 
however,  a  tale  be  universal  or  strictly  Celtic, 
generally  it  has  a  parallel  in  one  or  all  of 
the  racial  dialects.  True,  there  are  legendary- 
cycles  which  are  local.  The  Arzur  of  Brit- 
tany is  a  mere  echo  in  the  Hebrides,  and  the 
name  of  Cuculain  or  the  fame  of  the  Red 
Branch  has  not  reached  the  dunes  of  Armor- 
ica.  Nevertheless,  even  in  the  mythopoeic 
tales  there  is  a  kindred  character.  Nomenoe 
may  have  been  a  Breton  Fionn,  though  he 
had  no  Oisin  to  wed  his  deeds  to  a  deathless 
music;  and  Diarmid  and  Grainne  have  loved 
beneath  the  oaks  of  Broceliande  or  the  beech- 
groves  of  Llanidris,  as   well  as   among  the 

255 


By  Sundown  Shores 

hills  of  Erin,  or  in  the  rocky  fastnesses  of 
Morven,  It  is  characteristic,  too,  how  Celt- 
land  has  given  to  Celtland.  Scotland  gave 
Ireland  St.  Patrick;  Ireland  gave  Scotland 
St.  Columba;  the  chief  bard  of  Armorica 
came  from  Wales;  and  Cornwall  has  the 
Arthurian  fame  which  is  the  meed  of  Kymric 
Caledonia.  To  this  day  no  man  can  say 
whether  Oisin,  old  and  blind,  wandered  at  the 
last  to  Drumadoon  in  Arran,  or  if  indeed  he 
followed  out  of  Erin  the  sweet  voice  from 
Tirnan-Og,  and  was  seen  or  heard  of  by 
none,  till  three  centuries  later  the  bells  of  the 
clerics  and  the  admonitions  of  Patrick  made 
his  days  a  burden  not  to  be  borne.  Did  not 
the  greatest  of  Irish  kings  die  in  tributary 
lands  by  the  banks  of  the  'Loire,  and  who  has 
seen  the  moss  of  that  lost  grave  in  Broce- 
liande  where  Merlin  of  the  North  lay  down 
to  a  long  sleep? 

Even  where  there  seems  no  probability  of 
a  common  origin,  there  is  often  a  striking 
similarity  in  the  matter  and  the  manner  of 
folk-tales,  particularly  those  which  narrate  the 
strange  experiences  of  the  saints.  Thus,  for 
example,  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
legendary  stories  given  in  The  Shadow  of 
Arvor  ^  there  is  an  account  of  how  Gradlon, 

*  Vide  Notes,  p.  429. 
256 


By  Sundozvn  Shores 

"  the  honoured  chief  of  Kerne,  the  monarch 
who  built  Ys,  and  on  whose  brow  were  united 
the  crowns  of  Armorica,"  having  voluntarily 
become  a  wandering  beggar,  arrived  at  last 
in  the  heart  of  an  ancient  forest :  "  towering 
moss-clad  pillars  bearing  a  heavy  roof  of 
foliage,  full  of  the  mystery  of  a  cathedral 
aisle  by  night."  Here  the  king  vowed  to 
build  a  great  temple,  but  before  he  could  ful- 
fil his  vow  he  died.  Gwennole  the  monk  had 
missed  Gradlon,  and  had  followed  him  to  the 
forest,  to  find  him  there  on  the  morrow,  ly- 
ing on  a  bed  of  moss  which  the  fallen  leaves 
had  flecked  with  gold.  Near  him  crouched 
a  human  figure.  This  was  Primel  the  an- 
chorite. Note  how  the  king  speaks  to  the 
Christian  monk  Gwennole  concerning  this 
ancient  hermit.  "  Have  mercy  on  this  poor 
old  man  beside  me:  the  length  of  three  men's 
lives  has  been  his,  and  he  has  known  the 
deeps  of  sorrow.  The  sorrows  which  have 
come  upon  me  are  nothing  to  his;  for  while 
I  have  wept  over  the  fate  of  my  royal  city, 
and  while  for  Ahez  my  heart  has  been 
broken,  this  man  has  lost  his  gods.  There  is 
no  sorrow  that  is  so  great  a  sorrow.  He  is 
a  Druid  lamenting  a  dead  faith.  Show  him 
tenderness."  Therewith  Gradlon  dies.  Over 
the  dead  king  "  Gwennole  murmured  a  Latin 

257 


By  Sundown  Shores 

chant;  the  drnid  in  a  tremulous  voice  intoned 
a  refrain  in  an  unknown  tongue;  and  Grad- 
lon,  ruler  of  the  sea,  slept  in  that  glade 
watched  over  by  the  priest  of  Christ  and  by 
the  last  surviving  servant  of  Teutates.  .  .  . 
There,  amid  the  majestic  solitudes  of  the  for- 
est, the  two  religions  of  the  ancient  race 
joined  hands  and  were  at  one  before  the 
mystery  of  death."  Later,  the  druid  bids 
Gwennole  build  a  Christian  sanctuary  on  the 
spot  where  "  the  belated  ministrant  of  a  fallen 
faith  "  died  beside  Gradlon  Maur,  the  Great 
King.  One  strange  touch  of  bitterness  oc- 
curs. "  But,"  exclaims  Gwennole,  "  if  the 
sanctuary  be  reared  here,  we  shall  invade  thy 
last  refuge."  "  As  for  me  .  .  .  ! "  replies 
the  old  man;  then,  after  a  silence  he  adds, 
with  a  gesture  of  infinite  weariness,  "  it  is 
my  gods  who  should  protect  me.  Let  them 
save  me  if  they  can."  The  dying  druid  turns 
away  to  seek  his  long  rest  under  the  sacred 
oaks:  "Gwennole,  his  heart  full  of  a  tender 
love  and  pity  which  he  could  not  understand, 
moved  slowly  towards  the  sea."  A  fitting 
close  to  a  book  full  of  interest,  charm,  and 
spiritual  beauty. 

In  the  third  book  of  St.  Adamnan's  Life  of 
St.  Columha,  there  is  an  episode  entitled  "  Of 
a  manifestation  of  angels  meeting  the  soul  of 
258 


By  Sundown  Shores 

one  Emchath."  Columba,  "  making  his  way 
beyond  the  Ridge  of  Britain  (Drum-Alban), 
near  the  lake  of  the  river  Nisa  (Loch  Ness), 
being  suddenly  inspired  by  the  Holy  Spirit, 
says  to  the  brethren  who  are  journeying  with 
him  at  that  time.  Let  us  make  haste  to 
meet  the  holy  angels  who,  that  they  may 
carry  away  the  soul  of  a  certain  heathen  man, 
who  is  keeping  the  moral  law  of  nature  even 
to  extreme  old  age,  have  been  sent  out  from 
the  highest  regions  of  heaven,  and  are  wait- 
ing until  we  come  thither,  that  we  may  bap- 
tize him  in  time  before  he  dies.'  Thereafter 
the  aged  saint  made  as  much  haste  as  he 
could  to  go  in  advance  of  his  companions, 
until  he  came  to  the  district  which  is  named 
Airchartdan  (Glen  Urquhart)."  There  he 
found  "  the  holy  heathen  man,"  Emchath  by 
name. 

Here,  then,  is  an  instance  of  a  Celtic  priest 
in  Armorica  and  of  a  Celtic  priest  in  Scotland 
acting  identically  towards  an  upright  heathen. 
A  large  book  would  be  necessary  to  relate 
the  correspondence  between  the  folk-tales, 
the  traditional  romances,  and  the  Christian 
legends  of  the  four  great  branches  of  the 
Celtic  race. 

On  the  seventh  day,  when  God  rested,  says  a 
poet  of  the  Gael,  He  dreamed  of  the  lands  and 

259 


By  Sundown  Shores 

nations  he  had  made,  and  out  of  that  dream- 
ing were  born  Ireland  and  Brittany.  Truly, 
within  Christian  days,  there  were  more  saints, 
there  were  more  lamps  of  the  spirit  lit  in 
that  grey  peninsula,  in  that  green  land,  in  the 
little  sand-cinctured  isle  lona,  then  anywhere 
betwixt  the  Syrian  deserts  and  the  meads  of 
Glastonbury.  It  takes  nothing  from,  it  adds 
much  to  these  lands  where  spiritual  ecstasy 
has  longest  dreamed,  that  the  old  gods  have 
not  perished  but  merge  into  the  brotherhood 
of  Christ's  company:  that  the  old  faiths,  and 
the  ancient  spirit,  and  the  pagan  soul  were 
not  given  to  the  wave  for  foam,  to  the  pas- 
tures for  idle  sand.  Ireland  and  Brittany! 
Behind  the  sorrowful  songs  of  longing  and 
regret,  behind  the  faint  chime  of  bells  which 
some  day  linger  as  an  echo  in  the  towers  of 
Ys  where  she  lies  under  the  wave,  are  the 
cries  of  the  tympan  and  the  forgotten  music 
of  druidic  harps.  What  song  the  oaks  knew 
in  Broceliande,  what  song  Taliesin  heard, 
what  chant  Merlin  the  Wild  raised  among 
dim  woods  in  Caledon :  these  may  be  lost  to 
us  for  ever,  or  live  only  through  our  songs 
and  dreams  as  shadows  live  in  the  hollows  of 
the  sunrain :  but  Broceliande  and  Gethsem- 
ane  are  in  symbol  akin,  Taliesin  is  but  an- 
other name  of  him  who  ate  the  wild  honey 
260 


By  Sundozvn  Shores 

and  listened  to  the  wind,  and  Merlin,  with 
the  nuts  of  wisdom  in  his  hand,  stands  heark- 
ening to  the  same  deep  murmur  of  the  eter- 
nal life  which  "was  heard  upon  the  Mount  of 
Olives. 

It  has  occurred  to  me  often  of  late,  from 
what  I  have  seen,  and  read,  and  heard  from 
others,  that  the  Celtic  mythopoeic  faculty  is 
still  concerning  itself  largely  with  an  inter- 
weaving of  Pagan  and  Christian  thought,  of 
Pagan  and  Christian  symbol,  of  the  old  Pagan 
tales  of  a  day  and  of  mortal  beauty  with  the 
Christian  symbolic  legends  that  are  of  no  day 
and  are  of  immortal  beauty. 

A  fisherman  told  me  the  story  of  Diarmid 
and  Grainne,  in  the  guise  of  a  legend  of 
the  Virgin  Mary  and  her  Gaelic  husband.^ 
Three  years  ago,  in  Appin,  an  old  woman, 
Jessie  Stewart,  told  me  that  when  Christ 
was  crucified  He  came  back  to  us  as  Oisin 
of  the  Songs.  From  a  ferryman  on  Loch 
Linnhe,  near  the  falls  of  Lora,  a  friend  heard 
a  confused  story  of  Oisin  (confused  because 
the  narrator  at  one  moment  spoke  of  Oisin, 
and  at  another  of  "  Goll  "),  how  on  the  day 
that  Christ  was  crucified  Oisin  slew  his  own 
son,  and  knew  madness,  crying  that  he  was 
but  a  shadow,  and  his  son  a  shadow,  and  that 

'  See  lona,  p.  209. 
261 


By  Sundown  Shores 

what  he  had  done  was  but  the  shadow  of 
what  was  being  done  in  that  hour  '"  to  the 
black  sorrow  of  time  and  the  universe  {dom- 
hain)."  In  this  connection,  Celtic  students 
will  recall  the  story  of  Concobar  mac  Nessa, 
the  High  King  of  Ulster:  how  on  that  day 
he  rose  suddenly  and  fled  into  the  woods 
and  hewed  down  the  branches  of  trees,  cry- 
ing that  he  slew  the  multitudes  of  those  who 
at  that  moment  were  doing  to  death  the  in- 
nocent son  of  a  king. 

Out  of  this  confusion  may  arise  a  new  in- 
terpretation of  certain  great  symbolic  persons 
and  incidents  in  the  old  mythology-.  As  this 
legendary  lore  is  being  swiftly  forgotten,  it 
is  well  that  it  should  be  saved  to  new  mean- 
ings and  new  beauty,  by  that  mythopoeic  fac- 
ulty which,  in  the  Celtic  imagination,  is  as  a 
wing  continually  uplifting  fallen  dreams  to 
the  unaging  wind  of  the  Spirit. 


262 


THE  \MXD,  SILENCE,  AND  LOVE 

I  know  one  who,  asked  bj-  a  friend  desiring 
more  intimate  knowledge  as  to  what  influ- 
ences above  all  other  influences  had  shaped 
her  inward  life,  answered  at  once,  with  that 
sudden  vision  of  insight  which  reveals  more 
than  the  vision  of  thought,  "  The  Wind,  Si- 
lence, and  Love." 

The  answer  w-as  characteristic,  for,  with 
her  who  made  it,  the  influences  that  shape 
have  always  seemed  more  significant  than 
the  things  that  are  shapen.  None  can  know 
for  another  the  mysteries  of  spiritual  compan- 
ionship. What  is  an  abstraction  to  one  is  a 
reality  to  another :  what  to  one  has  the  proved 
familiar  face,  to  another  is  illusion. 

I  can  well  understand  the  one  of  whom  I 
write.  W'ith  most  of  us  the  shaping  influ- 
ences are  the  common  sweet  influences  of 
motherhood  and  fatherhood,  the  airs  of  home, 
the  place  and  manner  of  childhood.  But 
these  are  not  for  all,  and  may  be  adverse, 
and  in  some  degree  absent.  Even  when  a 
child  is  fortunate  in  love  and  home,  it  may 
263 


The  Wind,  Silence,  and  Love 

be  spiritually  alien  from  these:  it  may  dimly 
discern  love  rather  as  a  mystery  dwelling  in 
sunlight  and  moonlight,  or  in  the  light  that 
lies  on  quiet  meadows,  w^oods,  quiet  shores: 
may  find  a  more  intimate  sound  of  home  in 
the  wind  whispering  in  the  grass,  or  when  a 
sighing  travels  through  the  wilderness  of 
leaves,  or  when  an  unseen  wave  moans  in  the 
pine. 

When  we  consider,  could  any  influences 
be  deeper  than  these  three  elemental  powers, 
for  ever  young,  yet  older  than  age,  beautiful 
immortalities  that  whisper  continually  against 
our  mortal  ear.  The  Wind,  Silence,  and 
IvOve:  yes,  I  think  of  them  as  good  comrades, 
nobly  ministrant,  priests  of  the  hidden  way. 

To  go  into  solitary  places,  or  among  trees 
which  await  dusk  and  storm,  or  by  a  dark 
shore;  to  be  a  nerve  there,  to  listen  to,  in- 
wardly to  hear,  to  be  at  one  with,  to  be  as 
grass  filled  with,  as  reeds  shaken  by,  as  a 
wave  lifted  before,  the  wind:  this  is  to  know 
what  cannot  otherwise  be  known ;  to  hear  the 
intimate,  dread  voice ;  to  listen  to  what 
long,  long  ago  went  away,  and  to  what  now  , 
is  going  and  coming,  coming  and  going, 
and  to  what  august  airs  of  sorrow  and 
beauty  prevail  in  that  dim  empire  of  sha- 
dow  where   the    falling   leaf   rests   unfallen, 

264 


The  Wind,  Silence,  and  Love 

where  Sound,  of  all  else  forgotten  and  for- 
getting, lives  in  the  pale  hyacinth,  the  moon- 
white  pansy,  the  cloudy  amaranth  that  gathers 
dew. 

And,  in  the  wood;  by  the  grey  stone  on  the 
hill;  where  the  heron  waits;  where  the  plover 
wails;  on  the  pillow;  in  the  room  filled  with 
flame-warmed  twilight;  is  there  any  comrade 
that  is  as  Silence  is  ?  Can  she  not  whisper 
the  white  secrecies  which  words  discolour? 
Can  she  not  say,  when  we  would  forget,  for- 
get; when  we  would  remember,  remember? 
Is  it  not  she  also  who  says,  Come  unto  me 
all  ye  who  are  weary  and  heavy  laden,  and 
I  will  give  you  rest?  Is  it  not  she  who  has 
a  lute  into  which  all  loveliness  of  sound  has 
passed,  so  that  when  she  breathes  upon  it  life 
is  audible?  Is  it  not  she  who  will  close  many 
doors,  and  shut  away  cries  and  tumults,  and 
will  lead  you  to  a  green  garden  and  a  foun- 
tain in  it,  and  say,  "  This  is  your  heart,  and 
that  is  your  soul:  listen." 

That  third  one,  is  he  a  Spirit,  alone,  un- 
companioned?  I  think  sometimes  that  these 
three  are  one,  and  that  Silence  is  his  inward 
voice  and  the  Wind  the  sound  of  his  unweary- 
ing feet.  Does  he  not  come  in  wind,  whether 
his  footfall  be  on  the  wild  rose,  or  on  the 
bitter  wave,  or  in  the  tempest  shaken  with 
265 


The  Wind,  Silence,  and  Love 

noises  and  rains  that  are  cries  and  tears, 
sighs  and  prayers  and  tears? 

He  has  many  ways,  many  hopes,  many 
faces.  He  bends  above  those  who  meet  in 
twilight,  above  the  cradle,  above  dwellers  by 
the  hearth,  above  the  sorrowful,  above  the 
joyous  children  of  the  sun,  above  the  grave. 
Must  he  not  be  divine,  who  is  worshipped  of 
all  men?  Does  not  the  wild-dove  take  the 
rainbow  upon  its  breast  because  of  him,  and 
the  salmon  leave  the  sea  for  inland  pools, 
and  the  creeping  thing  become  winged  and 
radiant  ? 

The  Wind,  Silence,  and  Love:  if  one  can- 
not learn  of  these,  is  there  any  comradeship 
that  can  tell  us  more,  that  can  more  comfort 
us,  that  can  so  inhabit  with  living  light  what 
is  waste  and  barren? 

And,  in  the  hidden  hour,  one  will  stoop, 
and  kiss  us  on  the  brow,  when  our  sudden 
stillness  will,  for  others,  already  be  mem- 
ory. And  another  will  be  as  an  open  road, 
with  morning  breaking.  And  the  third 
will  meet  us,  with  a  light  of  joy  in  his  eyes; 
but  we  shall  not  see  him  at  first  because  of 
the  sun-blaze,  or  hear  his  words  because 
in  that  summer  air  the  birds  will  be  multi- 
tude. 

Meanwhile  they  are  near  and  intimate. 
266 


The  Wind,  Silence,  and  Love 

Their  life  uplifts  us.  We  cannot  forget 
wholly,  nor  cease  to  dream,  nor  be  left  un- 
hoping,  nor  be  without  rest,  nor  go  darkly 
without  torches  and  songs,  if  these  accom- 
pany us;  or  we  them,  for  they  go  one  way. 


267 


BARABAL 


A    MEMORY 


I  have  spoken  in  "  lona  "  and  elsewhere  of 
the  old  Highland  woman  who  was  my  nurse. 
She  was  not  really  old,  but  to  me  seemed  so, 
and  I  have  always  so  thought  of  her.  She 
was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  benignant 
natures  I  have  known. 

I  owe  her  a  great  debt.  In  a  moment, 
now,  I  can  see  her  again,  with  her  pale  face 
and  great  dark  eyes,  stooping  over  my  bed, 
singing  "  Wae's  me  for  Prince  Charlie,"  or 
an  old  Gaelic  Lament,  or  that  sad,  forgotten, 
beautiful  and  mournful  air  that  was  played  at 
Fotheringay  when  the  Queen  of  Scots  was 
done  to  death,  "  lest  her  cries  should  be 
heard."  Or,  later,  I  can  hear  her  telling  me 
old  tales  before  the  fire;  or,  later  still,  before 
the  glowing  peats  in  her  little  island-cottage, 
speaking  of  men  and  women,  and  strange 
legends,  and  stranger  dreams  and  visions. 
To  her,  and  to  an  old  islander,  Seumas  Mac- 
leod,  of  whom  I  have  elsewhere  spoken  in 
268 


4 


Barabal 

this  volume,  I  owe  more  than  to  any  other 
influences  in  my  childhood.  Perhaps  it  is 
from  her  that  in  part  I  have  my  great 
dislike  of  towns.  There  is  no  smoke  in 
the  lark's  house,  to  use  one  of  her  fre- 
quent sayings — one  common  throughout  the 
west. 

I  never  knew  any  one  whose  speech,  whose 
thought,  was  so  coloured  with  the  old  wis- 
dom and  old  sayings  and  old  poetry  of  her 
race.  To  me  she  stands  for  the  Gaelic  wo- 
man, strong,  steadfast,  true  to  "  her  own,"  her 
people,  her  clan,  her  love,  herself.  "  When 
you  come  to  love,"  she  said  to  me  once, 
"  keep  always  to  the  one  you  love  a  mouth  of 
silk  and  a  heart  of  hemp." 

Her  mind  was  a  storehouse  of  proverbial 
lore.  Had  I  been  older  and  wiser,  I  might 
have  learned  less  fugitively.  I  cannot  attempt 
to  reach  adequately  even  the  most  character- 
istic of  these  proverbial  sayings;  it  would 
take  overlong.  Most  of  them,  of  course, 
would  be  familiar  to  our  proverb-loving  peo- 
ple. But,  among  others  of  which  I  have 
kept  note,  I  have  not  anywhere  seen  the  fol- 
lowing in  print.  "  You  could  always  tell 
where  his  thoughts  would  be  .  .  .  pointing 
one  way  like  the  hounds  of  Finn  "  (i.e.  the 
two  stars  of  the  north,  the  Pointers):  "It's 
269 


Barabal 

a  comfort  to  know  there's  nothing  missing, 
as  the  wren  said  when  she  counted  the 
stars":  "The  dog's  howl  is  the  stag's 
laugh  ";  and  again,  "  I  would  rather  cry  with 
the  plover  than  laugh  with  the  dog "  (both 
meaning  that  the  imprisoned  comfort  of  the 
towns  is  not  to  be  compared  with  the  life  of 
the  hills,  for  all  its  wildness).  "  True  love  is 
like  a  mountain-tarn ;  it  may  not  be  deep,  but 
that's  deep  enough  that  can  hold  the  sun, 
moon,  and  stars  " :  "  It  isn't  silence  where  the 
lark's  song  ceases":  "St.  Bride's  Flower, 
St.  Bride's  Bird,  and  St.  Bride's  Gift  make  a 
fine  spring  and  a  good  year."  {Am  Bearnan 
Bhrigde,  'us  Gille-Bhrigde  'us  Lunn-Bata 
Bhrigde,  etc. — the  dandelion,  the  oyster- 
catcher,  and  the  cradle  ^ — because  the  dande- 
lion comes  with  the  first  south  winds  and  in 
a  sunny  spring  is  seen  everywhere,  and  be- 
cause in  a  fine  season  the  oyster-catcher's 
early  breeding-note  foretells  prosperity  with 
the  nets,  and  because  a  birth  in  spring  is 
good  luck  for  child  and  mother.)  "  It's 
easier  for  most  folk  to  say  Lus  Bealtainn 
than  La'  Bealtainn  ":  i.e.  people  can  see  the 

*  It  is  probably  in  the  isles  only  that  the  pretty 
word   Lunn-Bata   is   used   for  crd-all   (creathall),   a 
cradle.     It  might  best  be  rendered  as  boat-on-a- 
billow,  lunn  being  a  heaving  billow. 
270 


Barabal 

small  things  that  concern  themselves  better 
than  the  great  things  that  concern  the  world; 
literally,  "  It's  easier  to  say  marigold  than 
may-day " — in  Gaelic,  a  close  play  upon 
words :  "  Cuir  do  lamh  leinn,"  "  lend  us  a 
hand,"  as  the  fox  in  the  ditch  said  to  the 
duckling  on  the  roadside :  "  Gum  a  slan  gii'n 
till  thu/  "  May  you  return  in  health,"  as 
the  young  man  said  when  his  conscience 
left  him :  "  It's  only  a  hand's-turn  from 
eunadair  to  eunadan"  (from  the  bird-snarer 
to  the  cage)  :  "  Saying  end  is  next  door  to 
saying  eudail,"  as  the  girl  laughed  back  to 
her  sweetheart  {eud  is  jealousy  and  eudail 
my  Treasure)  :  "  The  lark  doesn't  need 
broggan  (shoes)  to  climb  the  stairs  of  the 
sky." 

Among  those  which  will  not  be  new  to 
some  readers,  I  have  note  of  a  rhyme  about 
the  stars  of  the  four  seasons,  and  a  saying 
about  the  three  kinds  of  love,  and  the  four 
stars  of  destiny.  Wind  comes  from  the 
spring  star,  runs  the  first;  heat  from  the 
summer  star,  water  from  the  autumn  star, 
and  frost  from  the  winter  star.  Barabal's 
variant  was  "  wind  (air)  from  the  spring  star 
in  the  east;  fire  (heat)  from  the  summer  star 
in  the  south;  water  from  the  autumn  star  in 
the  west;  wisdom,  silence  and  death  from  the 
271 


Barabal 

star  in  the  north."  Both  this  season-rhyme 
and  that  of  the  three  kinds  of  love  are  well 
known.     The  latter  runs: — 

Gaol  nam  fcar-diolain,  mar  shruth-lionaidh  na  mara; 
Gaol  nam  fear-fuadain,  mar  ghaoith  tuath  'thig  o'n 

charraig; 
Gaol  nam  fear-posda,  mar  luing  a'  sedladh  gu  cala. 

Lawless  love  is  as  the  wild  tides  of  the  sea; 

And  the  roamer's  love  cruel  as  the  north  wind  blowing 

from  barren  rocks; 
But  wedded  love  is  like  the  ship  coming  safe  home  to 

haven. 

I  have  found  these  two  and  many  others 
of  BarabaFs  sayings  and  rhymes,  except 
those  I  have  first  given,  in  collections  of 
proverbs  and  folklore,  but  do  not  remember 
having  noted  another,  though  doubtless  "  The 
Four  Stars  of  Destiny  (or  Fate)  "  will  be 
recalled  by  some.  It  ran  somewhat  as  fol- 
lows : — 

Reul  Near  (Star  of  the  East),  Give  us  kindly  birth; 
Reul  Deas  (Star  of  the  South),  Give  us  great  love; 
Reul  Niar  (Star  of  the  West) ,  Give  us  quiet  age ; 
Reul  Tuath  (Star  of  the  North),  Give  us  Death. 

It  was  from  her  I  first  heard  of  the  fami- 
liar legend  of  the  waiting  of  Fionn  and  the 
Feinn   (popularly  now   Fingal   and  the  Fin- 
272 


Barahal 

galians),  "  fo-gheasaibh,"  spellbound,  till  the 
day  of  their  return  to  the  living  world.  In 
effect  the  several  legends  are  the  same.  That 
which  Barabal  told  was  as  an  isleswoman 
would  more  naturally  tell  it.  A  man  so  pure 
that  he  could  give  a  woman  love  and  yet  let 
angels  fan  the  flame  in  his  heart,  and  so  in- 
nocent that  his  thoughts  were  white  as  a 
child's  thoughts,  and  so  brave  that  none  could 
withstand  him,  climbed  once  to  the  highest 
mountain  in  the  Isles,  where  there  is  a  great 
cave  that  no  one  has  ever  entered.  A  huge 
white  hound  slept  at  the  entrance  to  the 
cave.  He  stepped  over  it,  and  it  did  not 
wake.  He  entered,  and  passed  four  tall  de- 
mons, with  bowed  heads  and  folded  arms, 
one  with  great  wings  of  red,  another  with 
wings  of  white,  another  with  wings  of 
green,  and  another  with  wings  of  black. 
They  did  not  uplift  their  dreadful  eyes. 
Then  he  saw  Fionn  and  the  Feinn  sitting  in  a 
circle. 

Their  long  hair  trailed  on  the  ground; 
their  eyebrows  fell  to  their  beards;  their 
beards  lay  upon  their  feet,  so  that  nothing  of 
their  bodies  was  seen  but  hands  like  scarped 
rocks  that  clasped  gigantic  swords.  Behind 
them  hung  an  elk-horn  with  a  mouth  of  gold. 
He  blew  this  horn,  but  nothing  happened, 

273 


Barahat 

except  that  the  huge  white  hound  came  in, 
and  went  to  the  hollow  place  round  which  the 
Feinn  sat,  and  in  silence  ate  greedily  of 
treasures  of  precious  stones.  He  blew  the 
horn  again,  and  Fionn  and  all  the  Feinn 
opened  their  great,  cold,  grey,  lifeless  eyes, 
and  stared  upon  him ;  and  for  him  it  was 
as  though  he  stood  at  a  grave  and  the  dead 
man  in  the  grave  put  up  strong  hands  and 
held  his  feet,  and  as  though  his  soul  saw 
Fear. 

But  with  a  mighty  eflPort  he  blew  the  horn 
a  third  time.  The  Feinn  leaned  on  their 
elbows,  and  Fionn  said,  "  Is  the  end  come?  " 
But  the  man  could  wait  no  more,  and  turned 
and  fled,  leaving  that  ancient  mighty  com- 
pany leaning  upon  its  elbow,  spellbound 
thus,  waiting  for  the  end.  So  they  shall  be 
found.  The  four  demons  fled  into  the  air, 
and  tumultuous  winds  swung  him  from  that 
place.  He  heard  the  baying  of  the  white 
hound,  and  the  mountain  vanished.  He  was 
found  lying  dead  in  a  pasture  in  the  little  is- 
land that  was  his  home.  I  recall  this  here 
because  the  legend  was  plainly  in  Barabal's 
mind  when  her  last  ill  came  upon  her.  In 
her  delirium  she  cried  suddenly,  "  The 
Feinn !  The  Feinn !  they  are  coming  down 
the  hill!" 

274 


Barabal 

"  1  hear  the  bells  of  the  ewes,"  she  said 
abruptly,  just  before  the  end:  so  by  that  we 
knew  she  was  already  upon  far  pastures,  and 
heard  the  Shepherd  calling  upon  the  sheep 
to  come  into  the  fold. 


275 


THE  WHITE  HERON 

It  was  in  summer,  when  there  is  no  night 
among  these  Northern  Isles.  The  slow,  hot 
days  waned  through  a  long  after-glow  of  rose 
and  violet;  and  when  the  stars  came,  it  was 
only  to  reveal  purple  depths  within  depths. 

Mary  Macleod  walked,  barefoot,  through 
the  dewy  grass,  on  the  long  western  slope  of 
Innisron,  looking  idly  at  the  phantom  flake 
of  the  moon  as  it  hung  like  a  blown  moth 
above  the  rose-flush  of  the  West.  Below  it, 
beyond  her,  the  ocean.  It  was  pale,  opal- 
escent; here  shimmering  with  the  hues  of  the 
moonbow;  here  dusked  with  violet  shadow, 
but,  for  the  most  part,  pale,  opalescent.  No 
wind  moved,  but  a  breath  arose  from  the 
momentary  lips  of  the  sea.  The  cool  sigh 
floated  inland,  and  made  a  continual  faint 
tremor  amid  the  salt  grasses.  The  skuas 
and  guillemots  stirred,  and  at  long  intervals 
screamed. 

The  girl  stopped,  staring  seaward.  The 
illimitable,  pale,  unlifted  wave;  the  hinted 
dusk  of  the  quiet  underwaters;  the  unfathom- 
276 


The  White  Heron 

able  violet  gulfs  overhead ;— these  silent 
comrades  were  not  alien  to  her.  Their  kin, 
she  was  but  a  moving  shadow  on  an  isle;  to 
her,  they  were  the  veils  of  wonder  beyond 
which  the  soul  knows  no  death,  but  looks 
upon  the  face  of  Beauty,  and  upon  the  eyes 
of  Love,  and  upon  the  heart  of  Peace. 

Amid  these  silent  spaces  two  dark  objects 
caught  the  girl's  gaze.  Flying  eastward,  a 
solander  trailed  a  dusky  wing  across  the  sky. 
So  high  its  flight  that  the  first  glance  saw  it 
as  though  motionless;  yet,  .even  while  Mary 
looked,  the  skyfarer  waned  suddenly,  and  that 
which  had  been  was  not.  The  other  object 
had  wings  too,  but  was  not  a  bird.  A  fish- 
ing-smack lay  idly  becalmed,  her  red-brown 
sail  now  a  patch  of  warm  dusk.  Mary  knew 
what  boat  it  was — the  Nighcan  Dann,  out  of 
Fionnaphort  in  Ithona,  the  westernmost  of 
the  larraidh  Isles. 

There  was  no  one  visible  on  board  the 
Nighean  Donn,  but  a  boy's  voice  sang  a  mo- 
notonous Gaelic  cadence,  indescribably  sweet 
as  it  came,  remote  and  wild  as  an  air  out  of 
a  dim  forgotten  world,  across  the  still  waters. 
Mary  Macleod  knew  the  song,  a  strange 
iorram  or  boat-song  made  by  Pol  the  Freck- 
led, and  by  him  given  to  his  friend  Angus 
Macleod  of  Ithona.  She  muttered  the  words 
277 


The  White  Heron 

over  and  over,  as  the  lilt  of  the  boyish  voice 
rose  and  fell — 

It  is  not  only  when  the  sea  is  dark  and  chill  and 
desolate 
I  hear  the  singing  of  the  queen  who  lives  beneath 
the  ocean: 

Oft  have   I  heard  her  chanting  voice  when  noon 
o'erfioods  his  golden  gate, 

Or  when  the  moonshine  fills  the  wave  with  snow- 
white  mazy  motion. 

And  some  day  will  it  hap  to  me,  when  the  black 
waves  are  leaping, 
Or  when  within  the  breathless  green   I   see  her 
shell-strewn  door. 
That   singing   voice   will   lure    me   where   my   sea- 
drown'd  love  lies  sleeping 
Beneath  the  slow  white  hands  of  her  who  rules  the 
sunken  shore. 

For  in  my  heart  I  hear  the  bells  that  ring  their  fatal 
beauty, 
The  wild,  remote,  uncertain  bells  that  chant  their 
lonely  sorrow: 
The  lonely  bells  of  sorrow,  the  bells  of  fatal  beauty. 
Oft  in  my  heart  I  hear  the  bells,  who  soon  shall 
know  no  morrow. 

The  slow  splashing  of  oars  in  the  great 
hollow  cavern  underneath  her  feet  sent  a 
flush  to  her  face.  She  knew  who  was  there 
— that  it  was  the  little  boat  of  the  Nighean 
Donn,  and  that  Angus  Macleod  was  in  it. 
278 


The  White  Heron 

She  stood  among  the  seeding  grasses,  in- 
tent. The  cluster  of  white  moon-daisies  that 
reached  to  her  knees  was  not  more  pale  than 
her  white  face;  for  a  white  silence  was  upon 
Mary  Macleod  in  her  dreaming  girlhood,  as 
in  her  later  years. 

She  shivered  once  as  she  listened  to  An- 
gus's echoing  song,  while  he  secured  his  boat, 
and  began  to  climb  from  ledge  to  ledge.  He 
too  had  heard  the  lad  Uille  Ban  singing  as 
he  lay  upon  a  coil  of  rope,  while  the  smack 
lay  idly  on  the  unmoving  waters;  and  hear- 
ing, had  himself  taken  up  the  song — 

For  in  my  heart  I  hear  the  bells  that  ring  their  fatal 
beauty. 
The  wild,  remote,  uncertain  bells  that  chant  their 
lonely  sorrow: 
The  lonely  bells  of  sorrow,  the  bells  of  fatal  beauty. 
Oft  in  my  heart  I  hear  the  bells,  who  soon  shall  know 
no  morrow. 

Mary  shivered  with  the  vague  fear  that 
had  come  upon  her.  Had  she  not  dreamed, 
in  the  bygone  night,  that  she  heard  some  one 
in  the  sea  singing  that  very  song — some  one 
with  slow,  white  hands  which  waved  idly 
above  a  dead  man?  A  moment  ago  she  had 
listened  to  the  same  song  sung  by  the  lad 
Uille  Ban;  and  now,  for  the  third  time,  she 
279 


The  White  Heron 

heard  Angus  idly  chanting  it  as  he  rose  in- 
visibly from  ledge  to  ledge  of  the  great 
cavern  below.  Three  idle  songs  yet  she  re- 
membered that  death  was  but  the  broken 
refrain  of  an  idle  song. 

When  Angus  leaped  onto  the  slope  and 
came  towards  her,  she  felt  her  pulse  quicken. 
Tall  and  fair,  he  looked  fairer  and  taller  than 
she  had  ever  seen  him.  The  light  that  was 
still  in  the  west  lingered  in  his  hair,  which, 
yellow  as  it  was,  now  glistened  as  with  the 
sheen  of  bronze.  He  had  left  his  cap  in  the 
boat;  and  as  he  crossed  swiftly  towards  her, 
she  realized  anew  that  he  deserved  the  Gaelic 
name  given  him  by  Pol  the  poet-^Angus  the 
yellow-haired  son  of  Youth.  They  had  never 
spoken  of  their  love,  and  now  both  realised  in 
a  flash  that  no  words  were  needed.  At  mid- 
summer noon  no  one  says  the  sun  shines. 

Angus  came  forward  with  outreaching 
hands.  "Dear,  dear  love!"  he  whispered. 
"  Mhairi  mo  run,  muirnean,  mochree!  " 

She  put  her  hands  in  his;  she  put  her  lips 
to  his;  she  put  her  head  to  his  breast,  and 
listened,  all  her  life  throbbing  in  response  to 
the  leaping  pulse  of  the  heart  that  loved 
her. 

"  Dear,  dear  love!  "  he  whispered  again. 

"Angus!"  she  murmured. 
280 


The  White  Heron 

They  said  no  more,  but  moved  slowly  on- 
ward, hand  in  hand. 

The  night  had  their  secret.  For  sure,  it 
was  in  the  low  sighing  of  the  deep  when  the 
tide  put  its  whispering  lips  against  the  sleep- 
ing sea;  it  was  in  the  spellbound  silences  of 
the  isle;  it  was  in  the  phantasmal  light  of  the 
stars — the  stars  of  dream,  in  a  sky  of  dream, 
in  a  world  of  dream.  When,  an  hour — or 
was  it  an  eternity,  or  a  minute? — later,  they 
turned,  she  to  her  home  near  the  clachan  of 
Innisron,  he  to  his  boat,  a  light  air  had  come 
up  on  the  forehead  of  the  tide.  The  sail  of 
the  Nighcan  Donn  flapped,  a  dusky  wing  in 
the  darkness.  The  penetrating  smell  of  sea- 
mist  was  in  the  air. 

Mary  had  only  one  regret  as  she  turned 
her  face  inland,  when  once  the  invisibly  gath- 
ering mist  hid  from  her  even  the  blurred 
semblance  of  the  smack — that  she  had  not 
asked  Angus  to  sing  no  more  that  song  of  Pol 
the  Freckled,  which  vaguely  she  feared,  and 
even  hated.  She  had  stood  listening  to  the 
splashing  of  the  oars,  and,  later,  to  the  voices 
of  Angus  and  Uille  Ban;  and  now,  coming 
faintly  and  to  her  weirdly  through  the  gloom, 
she  heard  her  lover's  voice  chanting  the 
words  again.  What  made  him  sing  that 
song,  in  that  hour,  on  this  day  of  all  days? 
281 


The  IVhite  Heron 

For  in  my  heart  I  hear  the  bells  that  ring  their  fatal 
beauty, 
The  wild,  remote,  uncertain  bells  that  chant  their 
lonely  sorrow: 
The  lonely  bells  of  sorrow,  the  bells  of  fatal  beauty, 
Oft  in  my  heart  I  hear  the  bells,  who  soon  shall 
know  no  morrow. 

But  long  before  she  was  back  at  the  peat- 
fire  again  she  forgot  that  sad,  ha'unting  ca- 
dence, and  remembered  only  his  words — the 
dear  words  of  him  whom  she  loved,  as  he 
came  towards  her,  across  the  dewy  grass,  with 
outstretched  hands — 

"  Dear,  dear  love ! — Mhairi  mo  riin,  muir- 
nean,  mochree!  " 

She  saw  them  in  the  leaping  shadows  in 
the  little  room;  in  the  red  glow  that  flickered 
along  the  fringes  of  the  peats ;  in  the  darkness 
which,  like  a  sea,  drowned  the  lonely  croft. 
She  heard  them  in  the  bubble  of  the  meal, 
as  slowly  with  wooden  spurtle  she  stirred  the 
porridge;  she  heard  them  in  the  rising  wind 
that  had  come  in  with  the  tide;  she  heard 
them  in  the  long  resurge  and  multitudinous 
shingly  inrush  as  the  hands  of  the  Atlantic 
tore  at  the  beaches  of  Innisron. 

After  the  smooring  of  the  peats,  and  when 
the  two  old  people,  the  father  of  her  father 
and  his  white-haired  wife,  were  asleep,  she 
282 


The  White  Heron 

sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  warm  darkness. 
From  a  cranny  in  the  peat  ash  a  smouldering 
flame  looked  out  comfortingly.  In  the  girl's 
heart  a  great  peace  was  come  as  well  as  a 
great  joy.  She  had  dwelled  so  long  with 
silence  that  she  knew  its  eloquent  secrets; 
and  it  was  sweet  to  sit  there  in  the  dusk,  and 
listen,  and  commune  with  silence,  and  dream. 

Above  the  long,  deliberate  rush  of  the  tidal 
waters  round  the  piled  beaches  she  could 
hear  a  dull,  rhythmic  beat.  It  was  the  screw 
of  some  great  steamer,  churning  its  way 
through  the  darkness ;  a  stranger,  surely,  for 
she  knew  the  times  and  seasons  of  every 
vessel  that  came  near  these  lonely  isles. 
Sometimes  it  happened  that  the  Uist  or 
Tiree  steamers  passed  that  way;  doubtless 
it  was  the  Tiree  boat,  or  possibly  the  big 
steamer  that  once  or  twice  in  the  summer 
fared  northward  to  far-ofif  St.  Kilda. 

She  must  have  slept,  and  the  sound  have 
passed  into  her  ears  as  an  echo  into  a  shell; 
for  when,  with  a  start,  she  arose,  she  still 
heard  the  thud-thud  of  the  screw,  although 
the  boat  had  long  since  passed  away. 

It  was  the  cry  of  a  sea-bird  which  had 
startled  her.  Once — twice — the  scream  had 
whirled  about  the  house.  Mary  listened,  in- 
tent. Once  more  it  came,  and  at  the  same 
283 


The  White  Heron 

moment  she  saw  a  drift  of  white  press  up 
against  the  window. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  startled. 

"  It  is  the  cry  of  a  heron,"  she  muttered, 
with  dry  lips;  "but  who  has  heard  tell  of  a 
white  heron? — and  the  bird  there  is  white  as 
a  snow-wreath." 

Some  uncontrollable  impulse  made  her  hes- 
itate. She  moved  to  go  to  the  window,  to 
see  if  the  bird  w^ere  wounded,  but  she  could 
not.  Sobbing  with  inexplicable  fear,  she 
turned  and  fled,  and  a  moment  later  was  in 
her  own  little  room.  There  all  her  fear 
passed.  Yet  she  could  not  sleep  for  long. 
If  only  she  could  get  the  sound  of  that  beat- 
ing screw  out  of  her  ears,  she  thought.  But 
she  could  not,  neither  waking  nor  sleeping; 
nor  the  following  day ;  nor  any  day  thereafter  ; 
and  when  she  died,  doubtless  she  heard  the 
thud-thud  of  a  screw  as  it  churned  the  dark 
waters  in  a  night  of  shrouding  mist. 

For  on  the  morrow  she  learned  that  the 
Nighean  Doini  had  been  run  down  in  the  mist, 
a  mile  south  of  Ithona,  by  an  unknown 
steamer.  The  great  vessel  came  out  of  the 
darkness,  unheeding;  unheeding  she  passed 
into  the  darkness  again.  Perhaps  the  of^cer 
in  command  thought  that  his  vessel  had  run 
into  some  floating  wreckage;  for  there  was 
284 


The  White  Heron 

no  cry  heard,  and  no  lights  had  been  seen. 
Later,  only  one  body  was  found — that  of  the 
boy  Uille  Ban. 

When  heartbreaking  sorrow  comes,  there 
is  no  room  for  words.  Mary  Macleod  said 
little;  what,  indeed,  was  there  to  say?  The 
islanders  gave  what  kindly  comfort  they 
could.  The  old  minister,  when  next  he  came 
to  Innisron,  spoke  of  the  will  of  God  and  the 
Life  Eternal. 

Mary  bowed  her  head.  What  had  been, 
was  not:  could  any  words,  could  any  solace, 
better  that? 

"  You  are  young,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
donald,  when  he  had  prayed  with  her.  "  God 
will  not  leave  you  desolate." 

She  turned  upon  him  her  white  face,  with 
her  great,  brooding,  dusky  eyes: 

"  Will  He  give  me  back  Angus  ?  "  she  said, 
in  her  low,  still  voice,  that  had  the  hush  in  it 
of  lonely  places. 

He  could  not  tell  her  so. 

"  It  was  to  be,"  she  said,  breaking  the  long 
silence  that  had  fallen  between  them. 

"  Ay,"  the  minister  answered. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  then  took  his  hand. 
"  I  am  thanking  you,  Mr.  Macdonald,  for 
the  good  words  you  have  put  upon  my  sor- 
row. But  I  am  not  wishing  that  any  more 
285 


The  White  Heron 

be  said  to  me.  I  must  go  now,  for  I  have  to 
see  to  the  milking,  an'  I  hear  the  poor  beasts 
lowing  on  the  hillside.  The  old  folk  too  are 
weary,  and  I  must  be  getting  them  their  por- 
ridge." 

After  that  no  one  ever  heard  Mary  Mac- 
leod  speak  of  Angus.  She  was  a  good  lass, 
all  agreed,  and  made  no  moan;  and  there 
was  no  croft  tidier  than  Scaur-a-van,  and  be- 
cause of  her  it  was;  and  she  made  butter  bet- 
ter than  any  on  Innisron;  and  in  the  isles 
there  was  no  cheese  like  the  Scaur-a-van 
cheese. 

Had  there  been  any  kith  or  kin  of  Angus, 
she  would  have  made  them  hers.  She  took 
the  consumptive  mother  of  Uille  Ban  from 
Ithona,  and  kept  her  safe-havened  at  Scaur- 
a-van,  till  the  woman  sat  up  one  night  in  her 
bed,  and  cried  in  a  loud  voice  that  Uille  Ban 
was  standing  by  her  side  and  playing  a  wild 
air  on  the  strings  of  her  heart,  which  he  had 
in  his  hands,  and  the  strings  were  breaking, 
she  cried.  They  broke,  and  Mary  envied  her, 
and  the  whispering  joy  she  would  be  having 
with  Uille  Ban.  But  Angus  had  no  near  kin. 
Perhaps,  she  thought,  he  would  miss  her  the 
more  where  he  had  gone.  He  had  a  friend, 
whom  she  had  never  seen.  He  was  a  man 
of  lona,  and  was  named  Eachain  MacEachain 
286 


The  White  Heron 

Maclean.  He  and  Angus  had  been  boys  in 
the  same  boat,  and  sailed  thrice  to  Iceland 
together,  and  once  to  Peterhead,  that  maybe 
was  as  far  or  further,  or  perhaps  upon  the 
coast-lands  further  east.  Mary  knew  little 
geography,  though  she  could  steer  by  the 
stars.  To  this  friend  she  wrote,  through  the 
minister,  to  say  that  if  ever  he  was  in  trouble 
he  was  to  come  to  her. 

It  was  on  the  third  night  after  the  sinking 
of  the  Nighean  Bonn  that  Mary  walked  alone, 
beyond  the  shingle  beaches,  and  where  the 
ledges  of  trap  run  darkly  into  deep  water.  It 
was  a  still  night  and  clear.  The  lambs  and 
ewes  were  restless  in  the  moonshine;  their 
bleating  filled  the  upper  solitudes.  A  shoal 
of  mackerel  made  a  sputtering  splashing 
sound  beyond  the  skerries  outside  the  haven. 
The  ebb,  sucking  at  the  weedy  extremes  of 
the  ledges,  caused  a  continuous  bubbling 
sound.  There  was  no  stir  of  air,  only  a 
breath  upon  the  sea;  but,  immeasurably  re- 
mote, frayed  clouds,  like  trailed  nets  in  yel- 
low gulfs  of  moonlight,  shot  flame-shaped 
tongues  into  the  dark,  and  seemed  to  lick 
the  stars  as  these  shook  in  the  wind.  "  No 
mist  to-night,"  Mary  muttered;  then,  startled 
by  her  own  words,  repeated,  and  again  re- 
peated, "  There  will  be  no  mist  to-night." 
287 


The  White  Heron 

Then  she  stood  as  though  become  stone. 
Before  her,  on  a  solitary  rock,  a  great 
bird  sat.  It  was  a  heron.  In  the  moon- 
shine its  plumage  glistened  white  as  foam 
of  the  sea;  white  as  one  of  her  lambs  it 
was. 

She  had  never  seen,  never  heard  of,  a  white 
heron.  There  was  some  old  Gaelic  song — 
what  was  it? — no,  she  could  not  remember — 
something  about  the  souls  of  the  dead.  The 
words  would  not  come. 

Slowly  she  advanced.  The  heron  did  not 
stir.  Suddenly  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  and 
reached  out  her  arms,  and  her  hair  fell  about 
her  shoulders,  and  her  heart  beat  against  her 
throat,  and  the  grave  gave  up  its  sorrow,  and 
she  cried — 

"Oh,  Angus,  Angus,  my  beloved!  An- 
gus, Angus,  my  dear,  dear  love!  " 

She  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing,  felt  noth- 
ing, knew  nothing,  till,  numbed  and  weak, 
she  stirred  with  a  cry,  for  some  creeping  thing 
of  the  sea  had  crossed  her  hand.  She  rose 
and  stared  about  her.  There  was  nothing  to 
give  her  fear.  The  moon  rays  danced  on  a 
glimmering  sea-pasture  far  out  upon  the 
water;  their  lances  and  javelins  flashed  and 
glinted  merrily.  A  dog  barked  as  she  crossed 
the  flag-stones  at  Scaur-a-van,  then  suddenly 
288 


The  White  Heron 

began  a  strange  furtive  baying.     She  called, 
"Luath!  Luath!" 

The  dog  was  silent  a  moment,  then  threw 
its  head  back  and  howled,  abruptly  breaking 
again  into  a  sustained  baying.  The  echo 
swept  from  croft  to  croft,  and  wakened  every 
dog  upon  the  isle. 

Mary  looked  back.  Slowly  circling  behind 
her  she  saw  the  white  heron.  With  a  cry, 
she  fled  into  the  house. 

For  three  nights  thereafter  she  saw  the 
white  heron.  On  the  third  she  had  no  fear. 
She  followed  the  foam-white  bird;  and  when 
she  could  not  see  it,  then  she  followed  its 
wild,  plaintive  cry.  At  dawn  she  was  still  at 
Ardfeulan,  on  the  western  side  of  Innisron; 
but  her  arms  were  round  the  drowned  heart 
whose  pulse  she  had  heard  leap  so  swift  in 
joy,  and  her  lips  put  a  vain  warmth  against 
the  dear  face  that  was  wan  as  spent  foam, 
and  as  chill  as  that. 

Three  years  after  that  day  Mary  saw  again 
the  white  heron.  She  was  alone  now,  and  she 
was  glad,  for  she  thought  Angus  had  come, 
and  she  was  ready. 

Yet  neither  death  nor  sorrow  happened. 
Thrice,  night  after  night,  she  saw  the  white 
gleam  of  nocturnal  wings,  heard  the  strange 
bewildering  cry, 

289 


The  White  Heron 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day,  when  a  fierce 
gale  covered  the  isle  with  a  mist  of  driving 
spray.  No  Innisron  boat  was  outside  the 
haven;  for  that,  all  were  glad.  But  in  the 
late  afternoon  a  cry  went  from  mouth  to 
mouth. 

There  was  a  fishing-coble  on  the  skerries! 
That  meant  death  for  all  on  board,  for  noth- 
ing could  be  done.  The  moment  came 
soon.  A  vast  drowning  billow  leaped  for- 
ward, and  when  the  cloud  of  spray  had  scat- 
tered, there  was  no  coble  to  be  seen.  Only 
one  man  was  washed  ashore,  nigh  dead, 
upon  the  spar  he  clung  to.  His  name  was 
Eachain  MacEachain,  son  of  a  Maclean  of 
lona. 

And  that  was  how  Mary  Macleod  met  the 
friend  of  Angus,  and  he  a  ruined  man,  and 
how  she  put  her  life  to  his,  and  they  were 
made  one. 

Her  man  .  .  .  yes,  he  was  her  man,  to  whom 
she  was  loyal  and  true,  and  whom  she  loved 
right  well  for  many  years.  But  she  knew, 
and  he  too  knew  well,  that  she  had  wedded 
one  man  in  her  heart,  and  that  no  other  could 
take  his  place  there,  then  or  for  ever.  She 
had  one  husband  only,  but  it  was  not  he  to 
whom  she  was  wed,  but  Angus,  the  son  of 
Alasdair — him  whom  she  loved  with  the  deep 
290 


The  White  Heron 

love  that  surpasseth  all  wisdom  of  the  world 
that  ever  was,  or  is,  or  shall  be. 

And  Eachain  her  man  lived  out  his  years 
with  her,  and  was  content,  though  he  knew 
that  in  her  silent  heart  his  wife,  who  loved 
him  well,  had  only  one  lover,  one  dream,  one 
hope,  one  passion,  one  remembrance,  one 
husband. 


291 


THE   SMOOTHING   OF   THE   HAND 

Glad  am  I  that  wherever  and  whenever  I 
listen  intently  I  can  hear  the  looms  of  Nature 
weaving  Beauty  and  Music.  But  some  of 
the  most  beautiful  things  are  learned  other- 
wise— by  hazard,  in  the  Way  of  Pain,  or  at 
the  Gate  of  Sorrow. 

I  learned  two  things  on  the  day  when  I 
saw  Seumas  Mclan  dead  upon  the  heather. 
He  of  whom  I  speak  was  the  son  of  Ian 
Mclan  Alltnalee,  but  was  known  throughout 
the  home  straths  and  the  countries  beyond 
as  Seumas  Dhu,  Black  James,  or,  to  render 
the  subtler  meaning  implied  in  this  instance, 
James  the  Dark  One.  I  had  wondered  oc- 
casionally at  the  designation,  because  Seu- 
mas, if  not  exactly  fair,  was  not  dark.  But 
the  name  was  given  to  him,  as  I  learned 
later,  because,  as  commonly  rumoured,  he 
knew  that  which  he  should  not  have 
known. 

I  had  been  spending  some  weeks  with  Alas- 
dair  Mclan  and  his  wife  Silis  (who  was  my 
foster-sister),  at  their  farm  of  Ardoch,  high 
292 


The  Smoothing  of  the  Hand 

in  a  remote  hill  country.  One  night  we  were 
sitting  before  the  peats,  listening  to  the  wind 
crying  amid  the  corries,  though,  ominously 
as  it  seemed  to  us,  there  was  not  a  breath  in 
the  rowan-tree  that  grew  in  the  sun's  way  by 
the  house.  Silis  had  been  singing,  but  silence 
had  come  upon  us.  In  the  warm  glow  from 
the  fire  we  saw  each  other's  faces.  There 
the  silence  lay,  strangely  still  and  beautiful, 
as  snow  in  moonlight.  Silis's  song  was  one 
of  the  Da)ia  Spioradail,  known  in  Gaelic  as 
the  Hymn  of  the  Looms.  I  cannot  recall  it, 
nor  have  I  ever  heard  or  in  any  way  encoun- 
tered it  again. 

It  had  a  lovely  refrain,  I  know  not  whether 
its  own  or  added  by  Silis.  I  have  heard  her 
chant  it  to  other  runes  and  songs.  Now, 
when  too  late,  my  regret  is  deep  that  I  did 
not  take  from  her  lips  more  of  those  sorrow- 
ful, strange  songs  or  chants,  with  their  an- 
cient Celtic  melodies,  so  full  of  haunting 
sweet  melancholy,  which  she  loved  so  well. 
It  was  with  this  refrain  that,  after  a  long 
stillness,  she  startled  us  that  October  night. 
I  remember  the  sudden  light  in  the  eyes 
of  Alasdair  Mclan,  and  the  beat  at  my 
heart,  when,  like  rain  in  a  wood,  her 
voice  fell  unawares  upon  us  out  of  the  si- 
lence : 

293 


The  Smoothing  of  the  Hand 

Oh!   oh!   ohrone,    arone!     Oh!   oh!   mo   ghraidh,   mo 

chridhe! 
Oh!  oh!  mo  ghraidh,  mo  chridhe!  ' 


The  wail,  and  the  sudden  break  in  the  sec- 
ond Hne,  had  ahvays  upon  me  an  effect  of 
inexpressible  pathos.  Often  that  sad  wind- 
song  has  been  in  my  ears,  when  I  have  been 
thinking  of  many  things  that  are  passed  and 
are  passing. 

I  know  not  what  made  SiHs  so  abruptly 
begin  to  sing,  and  with  that  wailing  couplet 
only,  or  why  she  lapsed  at  once  into  silence 
again.  Indeed,  my  remembrance  of  the  in- 
cident at  all  is  due  to  the  circumstance  that 
shortly  after  Silis  had  turned  her  face  to  the 
peats  again,  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and 
then  Seumas  Dhu  entered. 

"  Why  do  you  sing  that  lament,  Silis,  sister 
of  my  father?  "  he  asked,  after  he  had  seated 
himself  beside  me,  and  spread  his  thin  hands 
against  the  peat  glow,  so  that  the  flame 
seemed  to  enter  within  the  flesh. 

Silis  turned  to  her  nephew,  and  looked  at 
him,  as  I  thought,  questioningly.  But  she  did 
not  speak.  He,  too,  said  nothing  more,  either 
forgetful  of  his  question,  or  content  with  what 

'  Pronounce    mogh-ray,    mogh-ree     (my    heart's 
delight — lit.  my  dear  one,  my  heart). 
294 


The  Smoothing  of  the  Hand 

he  had  learned  or  failed  to  learn  through  her 
silence. 

The  wind  had  come  down  from  the  corries 
before  Seumas  rose  to  go.  He  said  he  was 
not  returning  to  Alltnalee,  but  was  going  upon 
the  hill,  for  a  big  herd  of  deer  had  come 
over  the  ridge  of  Mel  Mor,  Seumas,  though 
skilled  in  all  hill  and  forest  craft,  was  not  a 
sure  shot,  as  was  his  kinsman  and  my  host, 
Alasdair  Mclan. 

"  You  will  need  help,"  I  remember  Alas- 
dair Ardoch  saying  mockingly,  adding,  "  Co 
dhiubh  is  fhearr  let  niise  their  sealladh  na 
faileadh  dhiubh f " — that  is  to  say,  Whether 
would  you  rather  me  to  deprive  them  of  sight 
or  smell? 

This  is  a  familiar  saying  among  the  old 
sportsmen  in  my  country,  where  it  is  believed 
that  a  few  favoured  individuals  have  the 
power  to  deprive  deer  of  either  sight  or 
smell,  as  the  occasion  suggests. 

"  Dhuit  ciar  nan  cam! — The  gloom  of  the 
rocks  be  upon  you !  "  replied  Seumas,  sul- 
lenly :  "  mayhap  the  hour  is  come  when  the 
red  stag  will  sniff  at  my  nostrils." 

With  that  dark  saying  he  went.  None  of 
us  saw  him  again  alive. 

Was  it  a  forewarning?    I  have  often  won- 
dered.    Or  had  he  sight  of  the  shadow? 
295 


The  Smoothing  of  the  Hand 

It  was  three  days  after  this,  and  shortly- 
after  sunrise,  that,  on  crossing  the  south  slope 
of  Mel  Mor  with  Alasdair  Ardoch,  we  came 
suddenly  upon  the  body  of  Seumas,  half  sub- 
merged in  a  purple  billow  of  heather.  It  did 
not,  at  the  moment,  occur  to  me  that  he  was 
dead.  I  had  not  known  that  his  prolonged  ab- 
sence had  been  noted,  or  that  he  had  been 
searched  for.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  must 
have  died  immediately  before  our  approach, 
for  his  limbs  were  still  loose,  and  he  lay  as  a 
sleeper  lies. 

Alasdair  kneeled  and  raised  his  kinsman's 
head.  When  it  lay  upon  the  purple  tussock, 
the  warmth  and  glow  from  the  sunlit  ling 
gave  a  fugitive  deceptive  light  to  the  pale 
face.  I  know  not  whether  the  sun  can  have 
any  chemic  action  upon  the  dead.  But  it 
seemed  to  me  that  a  dream  rose  to  the  face  of 
Seumas,  like  one  of  those  submarine  flowers 
that  are  said  to  rise  at  times  and  be  visible 
for  a  moment  in  the  hollow  of  a  wave.  The 
dream,  the  light,  waned ;  and  there  was  a 
great  stillness  and  white  peace  where  the 
trouble  had  been.  "  It  is  the  Smoothing  of 
the  Hand,"  said  Alasdair  Mclan,  in  a  hushed 
voice. 

Often  I  had  heard  this  lovely  phrase  in 
the  Western  Isles,  but  always  as  applied  to 
296 


The  Smoothing  of  the  Hand 

sleep.  When  a  fretful  child  suddenly  falls 
into  quietude  and  deep  slumber,  an  isles- 
woman  will  say  that  it  is  because  of  the 
Smoothing  of  the  Hand.  It  is  always  a  pro- 
found sleep,  and  there  are  some  who  hold  it 
almost  as  a  sacred  thing,  and  never  to  be  dis- 
turbed. 

So,  thinking  only  of  this,  I  whispered  to 
my  friend  to  come  away;  that  Seumas  was 
dead  weary  with  hunting  upon  the  hills;  that 
he  would  awake  in  due  time. 

Mclan  looked  at  me,  hesitated,  and  said 
nothing.  I  saw  him  glance  around.  A  few 
yards  away,  beside  a  great  boulder  in  the 
heather,  a  small  rowan  stood,  flickering  its 
feather-like  shadows  across  the  white  wool  of 
a  ewe  resting  underneath.  He  moved  thither- 
ward, slowly,  plucked  a  branch  heavy  with 
scarlet  berries,  and  then,  having  returned, 
laid  it  across  the  breast  of  his  kinsman. 

I  knew  now  what  was  that  passing  of  the 
trouble  in  the  face  of  Seumas  Dhu,  what 
that  sudden  light  was,  that  calming  of  the  sea, 
that  inefifable  quietude.  It  was  the  Smoothing 
of  the  Hand. 


297 


THE   WHITE    FEVER 

One  night,  before  the  peats,  I  was  told  this 
thing  by  old  Cairstine  Macdonald,  in  the  isle 
of  Benbecula.  It  is  in  her  words  that  I  give  it : 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  that  my  boy  Tor- 
maid  died,  the  moon-daisies  were  as  thick  as 
a  woven  shroud  over  the  place  where  Giorsal, 
the  daughter  of  Ian,  the  son  of  Ian  MacLeod 
of  Bailie  'n  Bad-a-sgailich,  slept  night  and 
day.^ 

All  that  March  the  cormorants  screamed, 
famished.  There  were  few  fish  in  the  sea, 
and  no  kelp-weed  was  washed  up  by  the  high 
tides.  In  the  island  and  in  the  near  isles, 
ay,  and  far  north  through  the  mainland,  the 
blight  lay.  Many  sickened.  I  knew  young 
mothers  who  had  no  milk.     There  are  green 

1  Bailie  'n  Bad-a-sgailich:  the  Farm  of  the  Sha- 
dowy Clump  of  Trees.  Cairstine,  or  Cairistine,  is  the 
Gaelic  for  Christina  (for  Christian),  as  Tormaid  is 
for  Norman,  and  Giorsal  for  Grace.  "The  quiet 
havens"  is  the  beautiful  island  phrase  for  graves. 
Here,  also,  a  swift  and  fatal  consumption  that  falls 
upon  the  doomed  is  called  "The  White  Fever." 
By  "the  mainland,"  Harris  and  the  Lews  are  meant. 
298 


The  White  Fever 

mounds  in  Carnan  kirkyard  that  will  be  tell- 
ing you  of  what  this  meant.  Here  and  there 
are  little  green  mounds,  each  so  small  that 
you  might  cuddle  it  in  your  arm  under  your 
plaid. 

Tormaid  sickened.  A  bad  day  was  that 
for  him  when  he  came  home,  weary  with  the 
sea,  and  drenched  to  the  skin,  because  of  a 
gale  that  caught  him  and  his  mates  off  Barra 
Head.  When  the  March  winds  tore  down 
the  Minch,  and  leaped  out  from  over  the 
Cuchullins,  and  came  west,  and  lay  against  our 
homes,  where  the  peats  were  sodden  and 
there  was  little  food,  the  minister  told  me 
that  my  lad  would  be  in  the  quiet  havens  be- 
fore long.  This  was  because  of  the  white 
fever.  It  was  of  that  same  that  Giorsal 
waned,  and  went  out  like  a  thin  flame  in  sun- 
light. 

The  son  of  my  man  (years  ago  weary  no 
more)  said  little  ever.  He  ate  nothing  almost, 
even  of  the  next  to  nothing  we  had.  At 
nights  he  couldna  sleep  because  of  the  cough. 
The  coming  of  May  lifted  him  awhile.  I 
hoped  he  would  see  the  autumn;  and  that  if 
he  did,  and  the  herring  came,  and  the  har- 
vest was  had,  and  what  wi'  this  and  what  wi' 
that,  he  would  forget  his  Giorsal  that  lay  i' 
the  mools  in  the  quiet  place  yonder.  Maybe 
299 


The  White  Fever 

then,  I  thought,  the  sorrow  would  go,  and 
take  its  shadow  with  it. 

One  gloaming  he  came  in  with  all  the  white- 
ness of  his  wasted  body  in  his  face.  His 
heart  was  out  of  its  shell ;  and  mine,  too,  at 
the  sight  of  him.^ 

This  was  the  season  of  the  hanging  of  the 
dog's  mouth. 

"What  is  it,  Tormaid-a-ghaolach  ? "  I 
asked,  with  the  sob  that  was  in  my  throat. 

"  Thraisg  mo  chridhe,"  he  muttered  (My 
heart  is  parched).  Then,  feeling  the  ask- 
ing in  my  eyes,  he  said,  "  I  have  seen  her." 

I  knew  he  meant  Giorsal.  My  heart  sank. 
But  I  wore  my  nails  into  the  palms  of  my 
hands.  Then  I  said  this  thing,  that  is  an  old 
saying  in  the  isles :  "  Those  who  are  in  the 
quiet  havens  hear  neither  the  wind  nor  the 
sea."  He  was  so  weak  he  could  not  lie  down 
in  the  bed.  He  was  in  the  big  chair  before 
the  peats,  with  his  feet  on  a  claar. 

'  A  cochall  a'  chridhe:  his  heart  out  of  its  shell — a 
phrase  often  used  to  express  sudden  derangement 
from  any  shock.  The  ensuing  phrase  means  the 
month  from  the  15th  of  July  to  the  15th  of  August, 
Mios  crochaidh  nan  con,  so  called  as  it  is  supposed  to 
be  the  hottest,  if  not  the  most  waterless,  month  in 
the  isles.  The  word  claar,  used  below,  is  the  name 
given  a  small  wooden  tub,  into  which  the  potatoes 
are  turned  when  boiled. 

300 


The  W  J  lite  Fever 

When  the  wind  was  still  I  read  him  the 
Word.  A  little  warm  milk  was  all  he  would 
take.  I  could  hear  the  blood  in  his  lungs  sob- 
bing like  the  ebb-tide  in  the  sea-weed.  This 
was  the  thing  that  he  said  to  me : 

"  She  came  to  me,  like  a  grey  mist,  beyond 
the  dyke  of  the  green  place,  near  the  road. 
The  face  of  her  was  grey  as  a  grey  dawn,  but 
the  voice  was  hers,  though  I  heard  it  under  a 
wave,  so  dull  and  far  was  it.  And  these  are 
her  words  to  me,  and  mine  to  her — and  the 
first  speaking  was  mine,  for  the  silence  wore 
me: 

Am  bheil  thu'  falbh, 
O  mo  ghraidh? 
B'idh  mi  falbh, 
Muirnean! 

C'uin  a  thilleas  tu, 
O  mo  ghraidh? 

Cha  till  vni  an  rathad  so; 
Tha  an't  ait  e  cumhann — 

O  Muirnean,  Muirnean! 
B'idh  mi  falbh  an  drugh 
Am  tigh  Pharais, 

Muirnean! 

Seol  dhomh  an  rathad, 
Mo  ghraidh! 

Thig  an  so,  Miiirnean-mo, 
Thig  an  so! 


The  White  Fever 

Are  you  going, 
My  dear  one? 

Yea,  now  I  am  going. 
Dearest. 

When  will  you  come  again, 
My  dear  one? 
/  will  not  return  this  way; 
The  place  is  narrow — 

O  my  Darling! 
I  will  be  going  to  Paradise, 

Dear,  my  dear  one! 

Show  me  the  way, 
Heart  of  my  heart ! 
Com.e  hither,  dearest,  come  hither. 
Come  with  me! 

"  And  then  I  saw  that  it  was  a  mist,  and 
that  I  was  alone.  But  now  this  night  it  is 
that  I  feel  the  breath  on  the  soles  of  my 
feet." 

And  with  that  I  knew  there  was  no  hope, 
"Ma  tha  si)i  an  dan!  ...  if  that  be  or- 
dained," was  all  that  rose  to  my  lips.  It  was 
that  night  he  died.  I  fell  asleep  in  the  second 
hour.  When  I  woke  in  the  grey  dawn,  his 
face  was  greyer  than  that,  and  more  cold. 


302 


THE  SEA-MADNESS 

I  know  a  man  who  keeps  a  little  store  in  a 
village  by  one  of  the  lochs  of  Argyll.  He  is 
about  fifty,  is  insignificant,  commonplace,  in 
his  interests  parochial,  and  on  Sundays  pain- 
ful to  see  in  his  sleek  respectability.  He  lives 
within  sight  of  the  green  and  grey  waters, 
above  which  great  mountains  stand ;  across 
the  kyle  is  a  fair  wilderness ;  but  to  my 
knowledge  he  never  for  pleasure  goes  upon 
the  hills,  nor  stands  by  the  shore,  unless  it  be 
of  a  Saturday  night  to  watch  the  herring-boats 
come  in,  or  on  a  Sabbath  afternoon  when  he 
has  word  with  a  friend. 

Yet  this  man  is  one  of  the  strangest  men  I 
have  met  or  am  like  to  meet.  From  himself 
I  have  never  heard  word  but  the  commonest, 
and  that  in  a  manner  somewhat  servile.  I 
know  his  one  intimate  friend,  however.  At 
intervals  (sometimes  of  two  or  three  years, 
latterly  each  year  for  three  years  in  succes- 
sion) this  village  chandler  forgets,  and  is  sud- 
denly become  what  he  was,  or  what  some  an- 
cestor was,  in  unremembered  days, 

303 


The  Sea-Madness 

For  a  day  or  two  he  is  listless,  in  a  still 
sadness;  speaking,  when  he  has  to  speak,  in 
a  low  voice;  and  often  looking  about  him 
with  sidelong  eyes.  Then  one  day  he  will 
leave  his  counter  and  go  to  the  shed  behind 
his  shop,  and  stand  for  a  time  frowning  and 
whispering,  or  perhaps  staring  idly,  and  then 
go  bareheaded  up  the  hillside,  and  along  tan- 
gled ways  of  bog  and  heather,  and  be  seen  no 
more  for  weeks. 

He  goes  down  through  the  wilderness  lo- 
cally called  The  Broken  Rocks.  When  he  is 
there,  he  is  a  strong  man,  leaping  like  a  goat 
— swift  and  furtive.  At  times  he  strips  him- 
self bare,  and  sits  on  a  rock  staring  at  the 
sun.  Oftenest  he  walks  along  the  shore,  or 
goes  stumbling  among  weedy  boulders,  call- 
ing loudly  upon  the  sea.  His  friend,  of  whom 
I  have  spoken,  told  me  that  he  had  again  and 
again  seen  Anndra  stoop  and  lift  handfuls 
out  of  the  running  wave  and  throw  the  water 
above  his  head  while  he  screamed  or  shouted 
strange  Gaelic  words,  some  incoherent,  some 
old  as  the  grey  rocks.  Once  he  was  seen  strid- 
ing into  the  sea,  batting  it  with  his  hands, 
smiting  the  tide-swell,  and  defying  it  and  de- 
riding it,  with  stifled  laughters  that  gave  way 
to  cries  and  sobs  of  broken  hate  and  love. 

He  sang  songs  to  it.     He  threw  bracken, 

304 


The  Sea-Madness 

and  branches,  and  stones  at  it,  cursing:  then 
falling  on  his  knees  would  pray,  and  lift  the 
water  to  his  lips,  and  put  it  on  his  head.  He 
loved  the  sea  as  a  man  loves  a  woman.  It  was 
his  light  o'  love :  his  love :  his  God.  Than  that 
desire  of  his  I  have  not  heard  of  any  more 
terrible.  To  love  the  wind  and  the  salt  wave, 
and  be  for  ever  mocked  of  the  one  and  baffled 
of  the  other ;  to  lift  a  heart  of  flame,  and  have 
the  bleak  air  quench  it;  to  stoop,  whispering, 
and  kiss  the  wave,  and  have  its  saltness  sting 
the  lips  and  blind  the  eyes :  this  indeed  is  to 
know  that  bitter  thing  of  which  so  many  have 
died  after  tears,  broken  hearts,  and  madness. 

His  friend,  whom  I  will  call  Neil,  once 
came  upon  him  when  he  was  in  dread.  Neil 
was  in  a  boat,  and  had  sailed  close  inshore  on 
the  flow.     Anndra  saw  him,  and  screamed. 

"  I  know  who  you  are !  Keep  away !  "  he 
cried.  "  Fear  faire  na  liaon  siila — I  know 
you  for  the  One-Eyed  Watcher !  " 

Then,  said  Neil,  "  the  salt  wave  went  out 
of  his  eyes  and  he  knew  me,  and  fell  on  his 
knees,  and  wept,  and  said  he  was  dying  of  an 
old  broken  love.  And  with  that  he  ran  down 
to  the  shore,  and  lifted  a  palmful  of  water  to 
his  lips,  so  that  for  a  moment  foam  hung 
upon  his  tangled  beard,  and  called  out  to  his 
love,  and  was  sore  bitter  upon  her,  and  then 


The  Sea-Madness 

up  and  laughed  and  scrambled  out  of  sight, 
though  I  heard  him  crying  among  the  rocks." 

I  asked  Neil  who  the  One-Eyed  Watcher 
was.  He  said  he  was  a  man  who  had  never 
died  and  never  lived.  He  had  only  one  eye, 
but  that  could  see  through  anything  except 
grey  granite,  the  grey  crow's  egg,  and  the 
grey  wave  that  swims  at  the  bottom.  He 
could  see  the  dead  in  the  water,  and  watched 
for  them :  he  could  see  those  on  the  land  who 
came  down  near  the  sea,  if  they  had  death  on 
them.  On  these  he  had  no  pity.  But  he  was 
unseen  except  at  dusk  and  in  the  grey  dawn. 
He  came  out  of  a  grave.  He  was  not  a  man, 
but  he  lived  upon  the  deaths  of  men.  It  was 
worse  to  be  alive,  and  see  him,  than  to  be 
dead  and  at  his  feet. 

When  the  man  Anndra's  madness  went 
away  from  him — sometimes  in  a  week  or  two 
weeks,  sometimes  not  for  three  weeks  or 
more — he  would  come  back  across  the  hill. 
In  the  dark  he  would  slip  down  through  the 
bracken  and  bog-myrtle,  and  wait  a  while 
among  the  ragged  fuchsias  at  the  dyke  of  his 
potato-patch.  Then  he  would  creep  in  at  the 
window  of  his  room,  or  perhaps  lift  the  door- 
latch  and  go  quietly  to  his  bed.  Once  Neil  was 
there  when  he  returned.  Neil  was  speaking 
to  Anndra's  sister,  who  kept  house  for  the 
306 


The  Sea-Madness 

poor  man.  They  heard  a  noise,  and  the  sud- 
den flurried  clucking  of  hens. 

"  It's  Anndra,"  said  the  woman,  with  a 
catch  in  her  throat;  and  they  sat  in  silence, 
till  the  door  opened.  He  had  been  away  five 
weeks,  and  hair  and  beard  were  matted,  and 
his  face  was  death-white ;  but  he  had  already 
slipped  into  his  habitual  clothes,  and  looked 
the  quiet  respectable  man  he  was.  The  two 
who  were  waiting  for  him  did  not  speak. 

"  It's  a  fine  night,"  he  said ;  "  it's  a  fine 
night,  an'  no  wind. — Marget,  it's  time  we  had 
in  mair  o'  thae  round  cheeses  fra  Inverary." 


307 


EARTH,    FIRE,   AND   WATER 

In  "  The  Sea-Madness  "  I  have  told  of  a 
man — a  quiet  dull  man,  a  chandler  of  a  little 
Argyll  loch-town — who,  at  times,  left  his 
counter,  and  small  canny  ways,  and  went  out 
into  a  rocky  wilderness,  and  became  mad  with 
the  sea.  I  have  heard  of  many  afflicted  in 
some  such  wise,  and  have  known  one  or  two. 

In  a  tale  written  a  few  years  ago,  "  The 
Ninth  Wave,"  I  wrote  of  one  whom  I  knew, 
one  Ivor  MacNeill,  or  "  Carminish,"  so  called 
because  of  his  farm  between  the  hills  Strond- 
eval  and  Rondeval,  near  the  Obb  of  Harris 
in  the  Outer  Hebrides.  This  man  heard  the 
secret  calling  of  the  ninth  wave.  None  may 
hear  that,  when  there  is  no  wave  on  the  sea, 
or  when  perhaps  he  is  inland,  and  not  follow. 
That  following  is  always  to  the  ending  of  all 
following.  For  a  long  while  Carminish  put 
his  fate  from  him.  He  went  to  other  isles : 
wherever  he  went  he  heard  the  call  of  the  sea. 
"  Come,"  it  cried,  "  come,  come  away !  "  He 
passed  at  last  to  a  kinsman's  croft  on  Aird- 
Vanish  in  the  island  of  Taransay.  He  was 
308 


Earth,  Fire,  and  Water 

not  free  there.  He  stopped  at  a  place  where 
he  had  no  kin,  and  no  memories,  and  at 
a  hidden,  quiet  farm.  This  was  at  Eilean 
Mhealastaidh,  which  is  under  the  morning 
shadow  of  Griomabhal  on  the  mainland.  His 
nights  there  were  a  sleepless  dread.  He 
went  to  other  places.  The  sea  called.  He 
went  at  last  to  his  cousin  Eachainn  Mac- 
Eachainn's  bothy,  near  Callernish  in  the 
Lews,  where  the  Druid  Stones  stand  by  the 
shore  and  hear  nothing  for  ever  but  the  noise 
of  the  waves  and  the  cry  of  the  sea-wind. 
There,  weary  in  hope,  he  found  peace  at  last. 
He  slept,  and  none  called  upon  him.  He  be- 
gan to  smile,  and  to  hope. 

One  night  the  two  were  at  the  porridge, 
and  Eachainn  was  muttering  his  Bui  'cheas 
dha  'n  Ti,  the  Thanks  to  the  Being,  when 
Carminish  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  with  a 
white  face  stood  shaking  like  a  rope  in  the 
wind. 

In  the  grey  dawn  they  found  his  body,  stiff 
and  salt  with  the  ooze. 

I  did  not  know,  but  I  have  heard  of  another 
who  had  a  like  tragic  end.  Some  say  he  was 
witless.  Others,  that  he  had  the  Friday-Fate 
upon  him.  I  do  not  know  what  evil  he  had 
done,  but  "  some  one  "  had  met  him  and  said 
to    him    "  Bidh    ruith    na    h'Aoin'    ort    am 

309 


Earth,  Fire,  and  Water 

Feasda,"  "  The  Friday-Fate  will  follow  you 
for  ever."  So  it  was  said.  But  I  was  told 
this  of  him :  that  he  had  been  well  and  strong 
and  happy,  and  did  not  know  he  had  a  terrible 
gift,  that  some  have  who  are  born  by  the  sea. 
It  is  not  well  to  be  born  on  a  Friday  night, 
within  sound  of  the  sea ;  or  on  certain  days. 
This  gift  is  the  "  Eblas  na  h'Aoine,"  the 
Friday-Spell.  He  who  has  this  gift  must 
not  look  upon  any  other  while  bathing:  if  he 
does,  that  swimmer  must  drown.  This  man, 
whom  I  will  call  Finlay,  had  this  eolas.  Three 
times  the  evil  happened.  But  the  third  time 
he  knew  what  he  did :  the  man  who  swam  in 
the  sunlight  loved  the  same  woman  as  Finlay 
loved ;  so  he  stood  on  the  shore,  and  looked, 
and  laughed.  When  the  body  was  brought 
home,  the  woman  struck  Finlay  in  the  face. 
He  grew  strange  after  a  time,  and  at  last  wit- 
less. A  year  later  it  was  a  cold  February. 
Finlay  went  to  and  fro  singing  an  old  Febru- 
ary rhyme  beginning: 

Feadag,  Feadag,  mathair  Faoillich  fhuair! 

(Plover,  plover,  Mother  of  the  bleak  Month.) 
He  was  watching  a  man  ploughing.  Sud- 
denly he  threw  down  his  cromak.  He  leaped 
over  a  dyke,  and  ran  to  the  shore,  calling, 
310 


Earth,  Fire,  and  Water 

"I'm  coming!  I'm  coming!  Don't  pull  me 
— I'm  coming!"  He  fell  upon  the  rocks, 
which  had  a  blue  bloom  on  them  like  fruit, 
for  they  were  covered  with  mussels;  and  he 
was  torn,  so  that  his  hands  and  face  were 
streaming  red.  "I  am  your  red,  red  love,"  he 
cried,  "  sweetheart,  my  love  " ;  and  with  that 
he  threw  himself  into  the  sea. 

More  often  the  sea-call  is  not  a  madness, 
but  an  inward  voice.  I  have  been  told  of  a 
man  who  was  a  farmer  in  Carrick  of  Ayr. 
He  left  wife  and  home  because  of  the  calling 
of  the  sea.  But  when  he  was  again  in  the 
far  isles,  where  he  had  lived  formerly,  he 
was  well  once  more.  Another  man  heard  the 
sobbing  of  the  tide  among  seaweed  whenever 
he  dug  in  his  garden;  and  gave  up  all,  and 
even  the  woman  he  loved,  and  left.  She  won 
him  back,  by  her  love;  but  on  the  night  be- 
fore their  marriage,  in  that  inland  place  where 
her  farm  was,  he  slipt  away  and  was  not  seen 
again.  Again,  there  was  the  man  of  whom  I 
have  spoken  in  "  lona,"  who  went  to  the 
mainland,  but  could  not  see  to  plough  because 
the  brown  fallows  became  waves  that 
splashed  noisily  about  him :  and  how  he  went 
to  Canada  and  got  work  in  a  great  ware- 
house, but  among  the  bales  of  merchandise 
heard   continually   the    singular   note  of   the 

311 


Earth,  Fire,  and  Water 

sandpiper,  while  every  hour  the  sea-fowl  con- 
fused him  with  their  crying. 

I  have  myself  in  lesser  degree,  known  this 
irresistible  longing.  I  am  not  fond  of  towns, 
but  some  years  ago  I  had  to  spend  a  winter  in 
a  great  city.  It  was  all-important  to  me  not  to 
leave  during  January ;  and  in  one  way  I  was 
not  ill-pleased,  for  it  was  a  wild  winter.  But 
one  night  I  woke,  hearing  a  rushing  sound  in 
the  street — the  sound  of  water.  I  would  have 
thought  no  more  of  it,  had  I  not  recognised 
the  troubled  noise  of  the  tide,  and  the  suck- 
ing and  lapsing  of  the  flow  in  weedy  hollows. 
I  rose  and  looked  out.  It  was  moonlight,  and 
there  was  no  water.  When,  after  sleepless 
hours,  I  rose  in  the  grey  morning  I  heard  the 
splash  of  waves.  All  that  day  and  the  next 
I  heard  the  continual  noise  of  waves.  I 
could  not  write  or  read ;  at  last  I  could  not 
rest.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  the 
waves  dashed  up  against  the  house.  I  said 
what  I  could  to  my  friends,  and  left  by  the 
night  train.  In  the  morning  we  (for  a  kins- 
woman was  with  me)  stood  on  Greenock  Pier 
waiting  for  the  Hebriedean  steamer,  the 
Clansman,  and  before  long  were  landed  on  an 
island,  almost  the  nearest  we  could  reach,  and 
one  that  I  loved  well.  We  had  to  be  landed 
some  miles  from  the  place  I  wanted  to  go  to, 
312 


Earth,  Fire,  and  Water 

and  it  was  a  long  and  cold  journey.  The 
innumerable  little  waterfalls  hung  in  icicles 
among  the  mosses,  ferns,  and  white  birches 
on  the  roadsides.  Before  we  reached  our  des- 
tination, we.  saw  a  wonderful  sight.  From 
three  great  mountains,  their  flanks  flushed 
with  faint  rose,  their  peaks  white  and  sol- 
emn, vast  columns  of  white  smoke  ascended. 
It  was  as  though  volcanic  fires  had  once  again 
broken  their  long  stillness.  Then  we  saw 
what  it  was:  the  north  wind  (unheard,  unfelt, 
where  we  stood)  blew  a  hurricane  against 
the  other  side  of  the  peaks,  and,  striking  upon 
the  leagues  of  hard  snow,  drove  it  upward 
like  smoke,  till  the  columns  rose  gigantic  and 
hung  between  the  silence  of  the  white  peaks 
and  the  silence  of  the  stars. 

That  night,  with  the  sea  breaking  less  than 
a  score  yards  from  where  I  lay,  I  slept, 
though  for  three  nights  I  had  not  been  able 
to  sleep.  When  I  woke,  my  trouble  was 
gone. 

It  was  but  a  reminder  to  me.  But  to  others 
it  is  more  than  that. 

I  remember  that  winter  for  another  thing, 
which  I  may  write  of  here. 

From  the  fisherman's  wife  with  whom  I 
lodged  I  learned  that  her  daughter  had  re- 
cently borne  a  son,  but  was  now  up  and  about 

313 


Earth,  Fire,  and  Water 

again,  though  for  the  first  time,  that  morning. 
We  went  to  her,  about  noon.  She  was  not 
in  the  house.  A  small  cabbage-garden  lay  be- 
hind, and  beyond  it  the  mossy  edge  of  a  wood 
of  rowans  and  birches  broke  steeply  in 
bracken  and  lonroid.  The  girl  was  there,  and 
had  taken  the  child  from  her  breast,  and, 
kneeling,  was  touching  the  earth  with  the 
small  lint-white  head. 

I  asked  her  what  she  was  doing.  She  said 
it  was  the  right  thing  to  do ;  that  as  soon  as 
possible  after  a  child  was  born,  the  mother 
should  take  it — and  best,  at  noon,  and  facing 
the  sun — and  touch  its  brow  to  the  earth. 
My  friends  (like  many  islanders  of  the  Inner 
Hebrides,  they  had  no  Gaelic)  used  an  un- 
famihar  phrase :  "  It's  the  old  Mothering."  It 
was,  in  truth,  the  sacrament  of  Our  Mother, 
but  in  a  far,  ancient  sense.  I  do  not  doubt 
the  rite  is  among  the  most  primitive  of  those 
practised  by  the  Celtic  peoples. 

I  have  not  seen  it  elsewhere,  though  I  have 
heard  of  it.  Probably  it  is  often  practised  yet 
in  remote  places.  Even  where  we  were,  the 
women  were  somewhat  fearful  lest  "  the 
minister  "  heard  of  what  the  young  mother 
had  done.  They  do  not  love  these  beautiful 
symbolic  actions,  these  "  ministers,"  to  whom 
they  are  superstitions.     This  old,  pagan,  sac- 

314 


Earth,  Fire,  and  Water 

ramental  earth-rite  is,  certainly,  beautiful. 
How  could  one  better  be  blessed,  on  coming 
into  life,  than  to  have  the  kiss  of  that  an- 
cient Mother  of  whom  we  are  all  children? 
There  must  be  wisdom  in  that  first  touch.  I 
do  not  doubt  that  behind  the  symbol  lies,  at 
times,  the  old  miraculous  communication. 
For,  even  in  this  late  day,  some  of  us  are 
born  with  remembrance,  with  dumb  worship, 
with  intimate  and  uplifting  kinship  to  that 
Mother. 

Since  then  I  have  asked  often,  in  many 
parts  of  the  Highlands  and  Islands,  for  what 
is  known  of  this  rite,  when  and  where  prac- 
tised, and  what  meanings  it  bears;  and  some 
day  I  hope  to  put  these  notes  on  record.  I 
am  convinced  that  the  Earth-Blessing  is  more 
ancient  than  the  westward  migration  of  the 
Celtic  peoples. 

I  have  both  read  and  heard  of  another 
custom,  though  I  have  not  known  of  it  at 
first-hand.  The  last  time  I  was  told  of  it 
was  of  a  crofter  and  his  wife  in  North  Uist. 
The  once  general  custom  is  remembered  in 
a  familiar  Gaelic  saying,  the  English  of 
which  is,  "  He  got  a  turn  through  the  smoke." 
After  baptism,  a  child  was  taken  from  the 
breast,  and  handed  by  its  mother  (sometimes 
the   child   was   placed   in   a   basket)    to   the 

315 


Earth,  Fire,  and  IVater 

father,  across  the  fire.  I  do  not  think,  but 
am  not  sure,  if  any  signal  meaning  He  in  the 
mother  handing  the  child  to  the  father.  When 
the  rite  is  spoken  of,  as  often  as  not  it  is  only 
"  the  parents "  that  the  speaker  alludes  to. 
The  rite  is  universally  recognised  as  a  spell 
against  the  dominion,  or  agency,  of  evil 
spirits.  In  Coll  and  Tiree,  it  is  to  keep  the 
Hidden  People  from  touching  or  singing  to 
the  child.  I  think  it  is  an  ancient  propitiatory 
rite,  akin  to  that  which  made  our  ancestors 
touch  the  new-born  to  earth;  as  that  which 
makes  some  islanders  still  baptize  a  child  with 
a  little  spray  from  the  running  wave,  or  a 
fingerful  of  water  from  the  tide  at  the  flow; 
as  that  which  made  an  old  woman  lift  me  as 
a  little  child  and  hold  me  up  to  the  south 
wind,  "  to  make  me  strong  and  fair  and  al- 
ways young,  and  to  keep  back  death  and  sor- 
row, and  to  keep  me  safe  from  other  winds 
and  evil  spirits."  Old  Barabal  has  gone 
where  the  south  wind  blows,  in  blossom  and 
flowers  and  green  leaves,  across  the  pastures 
of  Death ;  and  I  .  .  .  alas,  I  can  but  wish  that 
One  stronger  than  she,  for  all  her  love,  will 
lift  me,  as  a  child  again,  to  the  Wind,  and 
pass  me  across  the  Fire,  and  set  me  down 
again  upon  a  new  Earth. 


316 


FROM   ''GREEN   FIRE" 


Be  not  troubled  in  the  inward  Hope.  It  lives  in 
beauty,  and  the  hand  of  God  slowly  wakens  it  year  by 
year,  and  through  the  many  ways  of  Sorrow.    It  is  an 

Immortal,  and  its  name  is  Joy. 

P.M. 


318 


The  Herdsman 

On  the  night  when  Alan  Carmichael  with 
his  old  servant  and  friend,  Ian  M'lan,  arrived 
in  Balnaree  ("  Baile'-na-Righ "),  the  little 
village  wherein  was  all  that  Borosay  had  to 
boast  of  in  the  way  of  civic  life,  he  could  not 
disguise  from  himself  that  he  was  regarded 
askance. 

Rightly  or  wrongly,  he  took  this  to  be  re- 
sentment because  of  his  having  wed  (alas,  he 
recalled,  wed  and  lost)  the  daughter  of  the 
man  who  had  killed  Ailean  Carmichael  in  a 
duel.  So  possessed  was  he  by  this  idea,  that 
he  did  not  remember  how  little  likely  the 
islanders  were  to  know  anything  of  him  or  his 
beyond  the  fact  that  Ailean  MacAlasdair 
Rhona  had  died  abroad. 

The  trouble  became  more  than  an  imagi- 
nary one  when,  on  the  morrow,  he  tried  to 
find  a  boat  for  the  passage  to  Rona.  But  for 
the  Frozen  Hand,  as  the  triple-peaked  hill 
to  the  south  of   Balnaree  was  called,  Rona 

319 


The  Herdsman 

would  have  been  visible;  nor  was  it,  with 
a  fair  wind,  more  than  an  hour's  sail  dis- 
tant. 

Nevertheless,  he  could  detect  in  every  one 
to  whom  he  spoke  a  strange  reluctance.  At 
last  he  asked  an  old  man  of  his  own  surname 
why  there  was  so  much  difficulty. 

In  the  island  way,  Seumas  Carmichael  re- 
plied that  the  people  on  Elleray,  the  island 
adjacent  to  Rona,  were  unfriendly. 

"But  unfriendly  at  what?" 

"  Well,  at  this  and  at  that.  But  for  one 
thing,  they  are  not  having  any  dealings  with 
the  Carmichaels.  They  are  all  Macneills 
there,  Macneills  of  Barra.  There  is  a  feud, 
I  am  thinking ;  though  I  know  nothing  of  it ; 
no,  not  I." 

"  But  Seumas  mac  Eachainn,  you  know 
well  yourself  that  there  are  almost  no  Car- 
michaels to  have  a  feud  with !  There  are  you 
and  your  brother,  and  there  is  your  cousin 
over  at  Sgorr-Bhan  on  the  other  side  of  Boro- 
say.     Who  else  is  there  ?  " 

To  this  the  man  could  say  nothing.  Dis- 
tressed, Alan  sought  Ian  and  bade  him  find 
out  what  he  could.  He  also  was  puzzled  and 
uneasy.  That  some  evil  was  at  work  could 
not  be  doubted,  and  that  it  was  secret 
boded  ill. 

320 


The  Herdsman 

Ian  was  a  stranger  in  Borosay  because  of 
his  absence  since  boyhood ;  but,  after  all,  Ian 
mac  Iain  mhic  Dhonuill  was  to  the  islanders 
one  of  themselves;  and  though  he  came  there 
with  a  man  under  a  shadow  (though  this 
phrase  was  not  used  in  lan's  hearing),  that 
was  not  his  fault. 

And  when  he  reminded  them  that  for  these 
many  years  he  had  not  seen  the  old  woman, 
his  sister  Giorsal ;  and  spoke  of  her,  and  of 
their  long  separation,  and  of  his  wish  to  see 
her  again  before  he  died,  there  was  no  more 
hesitation,  but  only  kindly  willingness  to 
help. 

Within  an  hour  a  boat  was  ready  to  take 
the  homefarers  to  the  Isle  of  Caves,  as  Rona 
is  sometimes  called.  Before  the  hour  was 
gone,  they,  with  the  stores  of  food  and  other 
things,  were  slipping  seaward  out  of  Boro- 
say Haven. 

The  moment  the  headland  was  rounded, 
the  heights  of  Rona  came  into  view.  Great 
gaunt  cliffs  they  are,  precipices  of  black  ba- 
salt; though  on  the  south  side  they  fall  away 
in  grassy  declivities  which  hang  a  greenness 
over  the  wandering  wave  for  ever  sobbing 
round  that  desolate  shore.  But  it  was  not  till 
the  Sgorr-Dhu,  a  conical  black  rock  at  the 
south-east  end  of  the  island,  was  reached,  that 
321 


The  Herdsman 

the    stone    keep,    known    as    Caisteal-Rhona, 
came  in  sight. 

It  stands  at  the  landward  extreme  of  a 
rocky  ledge,  on  the  margin  of  a  green  airidh. 
Westward  is  a  small  dark-blue  sea  loch,  no 
more  than  a  narrow  haven.  To  the  north- 
west rise  precipitous  cliffs ;  northward,  above 
the  green  pasture  and  a  stretch  of  heather,  is  a 
woodland  belt  of  some  three  or  four  hun- 
dred pine-trees.  It  well  deserves  its  poetic 
name  of  I-monair,  as  Aodh  the  Islander  sang 
of  it ;  for  it  echoes  ceaselessly  with  wind  and 
wave.  If  the  waves  dash  against  it  from  the 
south  or  east,  a  loud  crying  is  upon  the  faces 
of  the  rocks ;  if  from  the  north  or  north-east, 
there  are  unexpected  inland  silences,  but 
amid  the  pines  a  continual  voice.  It  is  when 
the  wind  blows  from  the  south-west,  or  the 
huge  Atlantic  billows  surge  out  of  the  west, 
that  Rona  is  given  over  to  an  indescribable  tu- 
mult. Through  the  whole  island  goes  the 
myriad  echo  of  a  continuous  booming;  and 
within  this  a  sound  as  though  waters  were 
pouring  through  vast  hidden  conduits  in  the 
heart  of  every  precipice,  every  rock,  every 
boulder.  This  is  because  of  the  sea-arcades 
of  which  it  consists,  for  from  the  westward 
the  island  has  been  honeycombed  by  the 
waves.  No  living  man  has  ever  traversed  all 
322 


The  Herdsman 

those  mysterious,  winding  sea-galleries.  Many 
have  perished  in  the  attempt.  In  the  olden 
days  the  Uisteans  and  Harrovians  sought 
refuge  there  from  the  marauding  Danes  and 
other  pirates  out  of  Lochlin;  and  in  the  time 
when  the  last  Scottish  king  took  shelter  in  the 
west,  many  of  his  island  followers  found 
safety  among  these  perilous  arcades. 

Some  of  them  reach  an  immense  height. 
These  are  filled  with  a  pale  green  gloom  which 
in  fine  weather,  and  at  noon  or  toward  sun- 
down, becomes  almost  radiant.  But  most  have 
only  a  dusky  green  obscurity,  and  some  are 
at  all  times  dark  with  a  darkness  that  has  seen 
neither  sun  nor  moon  nor  star  for  unknown 
ages.  Sometimes,  there,  a  phosphorescent 
wave  will  spill  a  livid  or  a  cold  blue  flame, 
and  for  a  moment  a  vast  gulf  of  dripping 
basalt  be  revealed;  but  day  and  night,  night 
and  day,  from  year  to  year,  from  age  to  age, 
that  awful  wave-clamant  darkness  is  un- 
broken. 

To  the  few  who  know  some  of  the  secrets 
of  the  passages,  it  is  possible,  except  when  a 
gale  blows  from  any  quarter  but  the  north, 
to  thread  these  dim  arcades  in  a  narrow  boat, 
and  so  to  pass  from  the  Hebrid  Seas  to  the 
outer  Atlantic.  But  for  the  unwary  there 
might  well  be  no  return;   for  in  that  maze 

323 


The  Herdsman 

of  winding  galleries  and  sea-washed,  shadowy- 
arcades,  confusion  is  but  another  name  for 
death.  Once  bewildered,  there  is  no  hope ; 
and  the  lost  adventurer  will  remain  there 
idly  drifting  from  barren  passage  to  passage, 
till  he  perish  of  hunger  and  thirst,  or, 
maddened  by  the  strange  and  appalling 
gloom  and  the  unbroken  silence — for  there 
the  muffled  voice  of  the  sea  is  no  more 
than  a  whisper — leap  into  the  green  waters 
which  for  ever  slide  stealthily  from  ledge  to 
ledge. 

Now,  as  Alan  approached  his  remote  home, 
he  thought  of  these  death-haunted  corridors, 
avenues  of  the  grave,  as  they  are  called  in 
the  "  Cumha  Fhir-Mearanach  Aonghas  mhic 
Dhonuill  " — the  Lament  of  mad  Angus  Mac- 
donald. 

When  at  last  the  unwieldy  brown  coble 
sailed  into  the  little  haven,  it  was  to  create 
unwonted  excitement  among  the  few  fisher- 
men who  put  in  there  frequently  for  bait.  A 
group  of  eight  or  ten  was  upon  the  rocky 
ledge  beyond  Caisteal-Rhona,  among  them 
the  elderly  woman  who  was  sister  to  Ian  mac 
Iain. 

At  Alan's  request,  Ian  went  ashore  in  ad- 
vance in  a  small  punt.  He  was  to  wave  his 
hand   if   all   were   well,   for  Alan   could   not 

324 


The  Herdsman 

but  feel  apprehensive  on  account  of  the 
strange  ill-will  that  had  shown  itself  at 
Borosay. 

It  was  with  relief  that  he  saw  the  signal 
when,  after  Ian  had  embraced  his  sister,  and 
shaken  hands  with  all  the  fishermen,  he  had 
explained  that  the  son  of  Ailean  Carmichael 
was  come  out  of  the  south,  and  had  come  to 
live  a  while  at  Caisteal-Rhona. 

'All  there  uncovered  and  waved  their  hats. 
Then  a  shout  of  welcome  went  up,  and  Alan's 
heart  was  glad.  But  the  moment  he  had  set 
foot  on  land  he  saw  a  startled  look  come  into 
the  eyes  of  the  fishermen — a  look  that  deep- 
ened swiftly  into  one  of  aversion,  almost  of 
fear. 

One  by  one  the  men  moved  away,  awkward 
in  their  embarrassment.  Not  one  came  for- 
ward with  outstretched  hand,  or  said  a  word 
of  welcome. 

At  first  amazed,  then  indignant,  Ian  re- 
proached them.  They  received  his  words  in 
shamed  silence.  Even  when  with  a  bitter 
tongue  he  taunted  them,  they  answered 
nothing. 

"  Giorsal,"  said  Ian,  turning  in  despair  to 
his  sister,  "  is  it  madness  that  you  have  ?  " 

But  even  she  was  no  longer  the  same.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  Alan  with  a  look  of 

325 


The  Herdsman 

dread,  and  indeed  of  horror.  It  was  unmis- 
takable, and  Alan  himself  was  conscious  of 
it  with  a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart.  "  Speak, 
woman ! "  he  demanded.  "  What  is  the 
meaning  of  this  thing?  Why  do  you  and 
these  men  look  at  me  askance  ?  " 

"  God  forbid !  "  answered  Giorsal  Macdon- 
ald  with  white  lips ;  "  God  forbid  that  we  look 
at  the  son  of  Ailean  Carmichael  askance. 
But " 

"But  what?" 

With  that  the  woman  put  her  apron  over 
her  head  and  moved  away,  muttering  strange 
words. 

"  Ian,  what  is  this  mystery  ?  " 

"  How  am  I  for  knowing,  Alan  mac 
Ailean?  It  is  all  a  darkness  to  me  also.  But 
I  will  be  finding  that  out  soon." 

That,  however,  was  easier  for  Ian  to  say 
than  to  do.  Meanwhile,  the  brown  coble 
tacked  back  to  Borosay,  and  the  fisherman 
sailed  away  to  the  Barra  coasts,  and  Alan  and 
Ian  were  left  solitary  in  their  wild  and  re- 
mote home. 

But  in  that  very  solitude  Alan  found  heal- 
ing. From  what  Giorsal  hinted,  he  came  to 
believe  that  the  fishermen  had  experienced 
one  of  those  strange  dream-waves  which,  in 
remote  isles,  occur  at  times,  when  whole 
326 


The  Herdsman 

communities  will  be  wrought  by  the  self- 
same fantasy.  When  day  by  day  went  past, 
and  no  one  came  near,  he  at  first  was  puz- 
zled, and  even  resentful ;  but  this  passed,  and 
soon  he  was  glad  to  be  alone.  Ian,  however, 
knew  that  there  was  another  cause  for  the 
inexplicable  aversion  that  had  been  shown. 
But  he  was  silent,  and  kept  a  patient  watch 
for  the  hour  that  the  future  held  in  its 
shroud.  As  for  Giorsal,  she  was  dumb;  but 
no  more  looked  at  Alan  askance. 

And  so  the  weeks  went.  Occasionally  a 
fishing  smack  came  with  the  provisions,  for 
the  weekly  despatch  of  which  Alan  had  ar- 
ranged at  Loch  Boisdale,  and  sometimes  the 
Barra  men  put  in  at  the  haven,  though  they 
would  never  stay  long,  and  always  avoided 
Alan  as  much  as  was  possible. 

In  that  time  Alan  and  Ian  came  to  know 
and  love  their  strangely  beautiful  island 
home.  Hours  and  hours  at  a  time  they 
spent  exploring  the  dim,  green,  winding 
sea-galleries,  till  at  last  they  knew  the  chief 
arcades  thoroughly. 

They  had  even  ventured  into  some  of  the 
narrow,  snake-like  inner  passages,  but  never 
for  long,  because  of  the  awe  and  dread  these 
held,  silent  estuaries  of  the  grave. 

Week  after  week  passed,  and  to  Alan  it 

327 


The  Herdsman 

was  as  the  going  of  the  grey  owl's  wing,  swift 
and  silent. 

Then  it  was  that,  on  a  day  of  the  days,  he 
was  suddenly  stricken  with  a  new  and  start- 
ling dread. 


II 


In  the  hour  that  this  terror  came  upon 
him  Alan  was  alone  upon  the  high  slopes  of 
Rona,  where  the  grass  fails  and  the  lichen 
yellows  at  close  on  a  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea. 

The  day  had  been  cloudless  since  sunrise. 
The  sea  was  as  the  single  vast  petal  of  an 
azure  flower,  all  of  one  unbroken  blue  save 
for  the  shadows  of  the  scattered  isles  and  the 
slow-drifting  mauve  or  purple  of  floating 
weed.  Countless  birds  congregated  from 
every  quarter.  Guillemots  and  puffins,  cor- 
morants and  northern  divers,  everywhere 
darted,  swam,  or  slept  upon  the  listless  ocean, 
whose  deep  breathing  no  more  than  lifted  a 
league-long  calm  here  and  there,  to  lapse 
breathlike  as  it  rose.  Through  the  not  less 
silent  quietudes  of  air  the  grey  skuas  swept 
with  curving  flight,  and  the  narrow-winged 
terns  made  a  constant  white  shimmer.    At  re- 

328 


The  Herdsman 

mote  altitudes  the  gannet  motionlessly  drifted. 
Oceanward  the  great  widths  of  calm  were  rent 
now  and  again  by  the  shoulders  of  the  por- 
poises which  followed  the  herring  trail,  their 
huge,  black,  revolving  bodies  looming  large 
above  the  silent  wave.  Not  a  boat  was  visible 
anywhere;  not  even  upon  the  most  distant 
horizons  did  a  brown  sail  fleck  itself  duskily 
against  the  skyward  wall  of  steely  blue. 

In  the  great  stillness  which  prevailed,  the 
noise  of  the  surf  beating  around  the  promon- 
tory of  Aonaig  was  audible  as  a  whisper; 
though  even  in  that  windless  hour  the  con- 
fused rumour  of  the  sea,  moving  through 
the  arcades  of  the  island,  filled  the  hollow  of 
the  air  overhead.  Ever  since  the  early  morn- 
ing Alan  had  moved  under  a  strange  gloom. 
Out  of  that  golden  glory  of  midsummer  a 
breath  of  joyous  life  should  have  reached  his 
heart,  but  it  was  not  so.  For  sure,  there  is 
sometimes  in  the  quiet  beauty  of  summer  an 
air  of  menace,  a  premonition  of  suspended 
force — a  force  antagonistic  and  terrible.  All 
who  have  lived  in  these  lonely  isles  know  the 
peculiar  intensity  of  this  summer  melancholy. 
No  noise  of  wind,  no  prolonged  season  of  un- 
timely rains,  no  long  baffling  of  mists  in  all 
the  drear  inclemencies  of  that  remote  region, 
can  produce  the  same  ominous  and  even  para- 

329 


The  Herdsman 

lysing  gloom  sometimes  born  of  ineffable 
peace  and  beauty.  Is  it  that  in  the  human 
soul  there  is  mysterious  kinship  with  the 
outer  soul  which  we  call  Nature;  and 
that  in  these  few  supreme  hours  which 
come  at  the  full  of  the  year,  we  are,  some- 
times, suddenly  aware  of  the  tremendous 
forces  beneath  and  behind  us,  momently  quies- 
cent ? 

Determined  to  shake  off  this  dejection, 
Alan  wandered  high  among  the  upland  soli- 
tudes. There  a  cool  air  moved  always,  even 
in  the  noons  of  August;  and  there,  indeed, 
often  had  come  upon  him  a  deep  peace.  But 
whatsover  the  reason,  only  a  deeper  despond- 
ency possessed  him.  An  incident,  significant 
in  that  mood,  at  that  time,  happened  then.  A 
few  hundred  yards  away  from  where  he 
stood,  half  hidden  in  a  little  glen  where  a  fall 
of  water  tossed  its  spray  among  the  shadows 
of  rowan  and  birch,  was  the  bothie  of  a 
woman,  the  wife  of  Neil  MacNeill,  a  fisher- 
man of  Aoinaig.  She  was  there,  he  knew,  for 
the  summer  pasturing;  and  even  as  he  recol- 
lected this,  he  heard  the  sound  of  her  voice 
as  she  sang  somewhere  by  the  burnside. 
Moving  slowly  toward  the  corrie,  he  stopped 
at  a  mountain  ash  which  overhung  a  pool. 
Looking  down,  he   saw    the   woman,   Morag 

330 


The  Herdsman 

MacNeill,  washing  and  peeling  potatoes  in  the 
clear  brown  water.  And  as  she  washed  and 
peeled,  she  sang  an  old-time  shealing  hymn 
of  the  Virgin-Shepherdess,  of  Michael  the 
White,  and  of  Columan  the  Dove.  It  was  a 
song  that,  years  ago,  far  away  in  Brittany, 
he  had  heard  from  his  mother's  lips.  He  lis- 
tened now  to  every  word  of  the  doubly  fa- 
miliar Gaelic;  and  when  Morag  ended,  the 
tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  he  stood  for  a 
while  as  one  under  a  spell  ^ 

"A  Mhicheil  mhin!  nan  steud  geala, 
A  choisin  cios  air  Dragon  fala, 
Air  ghaol  Dia  'us  Mhic  Muire, 
Sgaoil  do  sgiath  oimn  dian  sinn  uile, 
Sgaoil  do  sgiath  oimn  dian  sinn  uile. 

"A  Mhoire  ghradhach!     Mathair  Uain-ghil, 
Cobhair  oirnne,  Oigh  na  h-uaisle; 
A  rioghainn  uai'reach!  a  bhuachaille  nan  treud! 
Cum  ar  cuallach  cuartaich  sinn  le  cheil, 
Cum  ar  cuallach  cuartaich  sinn  le  cheil. 

"A  Chalum-Chille!  chairdeil,  chaoimh. 
An  ainm  Athar,  Mic,  'us  Spioraid  Naoimh, 
Trid  na  Trithinn!    trid  na  Triath! 
Comraig  sinne,  gleidh  ar  trial, 
Comraig  sinne,  gleidh  ar  trial. 

'  This  hymn  was  taken  down  in  the  Gaelic  and 
translated  by  Mr.  Alexander  Carmichael  of  South 
Uist. 


The  Herdsman 

Athair!     A  Mhic!     A  Spioraid  Naoimh! 
Bi'eadh  an  Tri-Aon  leinn,  a  la's  a  dh-oidhche! 
'S  air  chul  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  nam  beann, 
Bi'dh  ar  Mathair  leinn,  's  bith  a  lamh  fo'r  ceann, 
Bi'dh  ar  Mathair  leinn,  's  bith  a  lamh  fo'r  ceann. 

Thou  gentle  Michael  of  the  white  steed, 
Who  subdued  the  Dragon  of  blood, 
For  love  of  God  and  the  Son  of  Mary, 
Spread  over  us  thy  wing,  shield  us  all! 
Spread  over  us  thy  wing,  shield  us  all! 

Mary  beloved!     Mother  of  the  White  Lamb, 
Protect  us,  thou  Virgin  of  nobleness. 
Queen  of  beauty!     Shepherdess  of  the  flocks! 
Keep  our  cattle,  surround  us  together, 
Keep  our  cattle,  surround  us  together. 

Thou  Colomba,  the  friendly,  the  kind. 

In  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Spirit 

Holy, 
Through  the  Three-in-One,  through  the  Three, 
Encompass  us,  guard  our  procession, 
Encompass  us,  guard  our  procession. 

Thou  Father!  thou  Son!  thou  Spirit  Holy! 
Be  the  Three-in-One  with  us  day  and  night. 
And  on  the  crested  wave,  or  on  the  mountainside. 
Our  Mother  is  there,  and  her  arm  is  under  our 

head, 
Our  Mother  is  there,  and  her  arm  is  under  our 

head." 

Alan  found  himself  repeating  whispering- 
ly,  and  again  and  again — 


The  Herdsman 

"Bi  'eadh  an  Tri-Aon  leinn,  a  la's  a  dh-oidhche! 
'S  air  chul  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  nam  beann." 

Suddenly  the  woman  glanced  upward,  per- 
haps because  of  the  shadow  that  moved  against 
the  green  bracken  below.  With  a  startled 
gesture  she  sprang  to  her  feet.  Alan  looked 
at  her  kindly,  saying,  with  a  smile,  "  Sure, 
Morag  nic  Tormod,  it  is  not  fear  you  need  be 
having  of  one  who  is  your  friend."  Then, 
seeing  that  the  woman  stared  at  him  with 
something  of  terror  as  well  as  surprise,  he 
spoke  to  her  again. 

"  Sure,  Morag,  I  am  no  stranger  that  you 
should  be  looking  at  me  with  those  foreign 
eyes."  He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  and  made  as 
though  he  were  about  to  descend  to  the  burn- 
side.  Unmistakably,  however,  the  woman  did 
not  desire  his  company.  He  saw  this,  with 
the  pain  and  bewilderment  which  had  come 
upon  him  whenever  the  like  happened,  as  so 
often  it  had  happened  since  he  had  come  to 
Rona. 

"  Tell  me,  Morag  MacNeill,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this  strangeness  that  is  upon  you  ? 
Why  do  you  not  speak?  Why  do  you  turn 
away  your  head  ?  " 

Suddenly  the  woman  flashed  her  black 
eyes  upon  him. 

333 


The  Herdsman 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  am  Buachaill 
Ban — am  Buachaill  Buidhe?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  amaze.  Am  Buachaill 
Ban!  .  .  .  The  fair-haired  Herdsman,  the 
yellow-haired  Herdsman!  What  could  she 
mean  ?  In  days  gone  by,  he  knew,  the  island- 
ers, in  the  evil  time  after  Culloden,  had  so 
named  the  fugitive  Prince  who  had  sought 
shelter  in  the  Hebrides ;  and  in  some  of  the 
runes  of  an  older  day  still  the  Saviour  of  the 
World  was  sometimes  so  called,  just  as  Mary 
was  called  Bhuachaile  nan  treud  —  Shep- 
herdess of  the  Flock.  But  it  could  be  no  allu- 
sion to  either  of  these  that  was  intended. 

"  Who  is  the  Herdsman  of  whom  you  speak, 
Morag?" 

"  Is  it  no  knowledge  you  have  of  him  at 
all,  Alan  MacAilean?" 

"  None.  I  know  nothing  of  the  man,  noth- 
ing of  what  is  in  your  mind.  Who  is  the 
Herdsman  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  be  putting  evil  upon  me  be- 
cause that  you  saw  me  here  by  the  pool  be- 
fore I  saw  you  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I,  woman  ?  Why  do  you 
think  that  I  have  the  power  of  the  evil  eye? 
Sure,  I  have  done  no  harm  to  you  or 
yours,  and  wish  none.  But  if  it  is  for 
peace  to  you  to  know  it,  it  is  no  evil  I  wish 

334 


The  Herdsman 

you,  but  only  good.  The  Blessing  of  Him- 
self be  upon  you  and  yours  and  upon  your 
house !  " 

The  woman  looked  relieved,  but  still  cast 
her  furtive  gaze  upon  Alan,  who  no  longer 
attempted  to  join  her. 

"  I  cannot  be  speaking  the  thing  that  is  in 
my  mind,  Alan  MacAilean.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  be  saying  that  thing.  But  if  you  have  no 
knowledge  of  the  Herdsman,  sure  it  is  only 
another  wonder  of  the  wonders,  and  God  has 
the  sun  on  that  shadow,  to  the  Stones  be  it 
said." 

"  But  tell  me,  Morag,  who  is  the  Herds- 
man of  whom  you  speak?" 

For  a  minute  or  more  the  woman  stood  re- 
garding him  intently.  Then  slowly,  and  with 
obvious  reluctance,  she  spoke — 

"  Why  have  you  appeared  to  the  people 
upon  the  isles,  sometimes  by  moonlight,  some- 
times by  day  or  in  the  dusk,  and  have  fore- 
told upon  one  and  all  who  dwell  here  black 
gloom  and  the  red  flame  of  sorrow?  Why 
have  you,  who  are  an  outcast  because  of 
what  lies  between  you  and  another,  pretended 
to  be  a  messenger  of  the  Son — ay,  for  sure, 
even,  God  forgive  you,  to  be  the  Son  Him- 
self?" 

Alan  stared  at  the  woman.    For  a  time  he 

335 


The  Herdsman 

could  utter  no  word.  Had  some  extraordi- 
nary delusion  spread  among  the  islanders, 
and  was  there  in  the  insane  accusation  of  this 
woman  the  secret  of  that  which  had  so  trou- 
bled him? 

"  This  is  all  an  empty  darkness  to  me, 
Morag.  Speak  more  plainly,  woman.  What 
is  all  this  madness  that  you  say  ?  When  have 
I  spoken  of  having  any  mission,  or  of  being 
other  than  I  am?  When  have  I  foretold  evil 
upon  you  or  yours,  or  upon  the  isles  beyond? 
What  man  has  ever  dared  to  say  that  Alan 
MacAilean  of  Rona  is  an  outcast?  And  what 
sin  is  it  that  lies  between  me  and  another  of 
which  you  know  ?  " 

It  was  impossible  for  Morag  MacNeill  to 
doubt  the  sincerity  of  the  man  who  spoke  to 
her.  She  crossed  herself,  and  muttered  the 
words  of  a  seun  for  the  protection  of  the  soul 
against  the  demon  powers.  Still,  even  while 
she  believed  in  Alan's  sincerity,  she  could  not 
reconcile  it  with  that  terrible  and  strange 
mystery  wiJ:h  which  rumour  had  filled  her 
ears.  So,  having  nothing  to  say  in  reply  to 
his  eager  questions,  she  cast  down  her  eyes 
and  kept  silence. 

"Speak,  Morag,  for  Heaven's  sake!  Speak 
if  you  are  a  true  woman ;  you  that  see  a  man 
in  sore  pain,  in  pain,  too,  for  that  of  which 

336 


The  Herdsman 

he  knows  nothing,  and  of  the  ill  of  which  he 
is  guiltless !  " 

But,  keeping  her  face  averted,  the  woman 
muttered  simply,  "  I  have  no  more  to  say." 
With  that  she  turned  and  moved  slowly  along 
the  pathway  which  led  from  the  pool  to  her 
hillside  bothie. 

With  a  sigh,  Alan  walked  slowly  away. 
What  wonder,  he  thought,  that  deep  gloom 
had  been  upon  him  that  day?  Here,  in  the 
woman's  mysterious  words,  was  the  shadow 
of  that  shadow. 

Slowly,  brooding  deep  over  what  he  had 
heard,  he  crossed  the  Monadh-nan-Con,  as 
the  hill-tract  there  was  called,  till  he  came  to 
the  rocky  wilderness  known  as  the  Slope  of 
the  Caverns. 

There  for  a  time  he  leaned  against  a  high 
boulder,  idly  watching  a  few  sheep  nibbling 
the  short  grass  which  grew  about  some  of  the 
many  caves  which  opened  in  slits  or  wide  hol- 
lows. Below  and  beyond  he  saw  the  pale  blue 
silence  of  the  sea  meet  the  pale  blue  silence  of 
the  sky;  south-westward,  the  grey  film  of  the 
coast  of  Ulster ;  westward,  again  the  illimita- 
ble vast  of  sea  and  sky,  infinitudes  of  calm,  as 
though  the  blue  silence  of  heaven  breathed  in 
that  one  motionless  wave,  as  though  that  wave 
sighed  and  drew   the  horizons  to   its   heart. 

337 


The  Herdsman 

From  where  he  stood  he  could  hear  the  mur- 
mur of  the  surge  whispering  all  round  the 
isle;  the  surge  that,  even  on  days  of  pro- 
found stillness,  makes  a  murmurous  rumour 
among  the  rocks  and  shingle  of  the  island 
shores.  Not  upon  the  moor-side,  but  in  the 
blank  hollows  of  the  caves  around  him,  he 
heard,  as  in  gigantic  shells,  the  moving  of  a 
strange  and  solemn  rhythm :  wave-haunted 
shells  indeed,  for  the  echo  that  was  bruited 
from  one  to  the  other  came  from  beneath, 
from  out  of  those  labyrinthine  passages  and 
dim,  shadowy  sea-arcades,  where  among  the 
melancholy  green  glooms  the  Atlantic  waters 
lose  themselves  in  a  vain  wandering. 

For  long  he  leaned  there,  revolving  in  his 
mind  the  mystery  of  Morag  MacNeill's 
words.  Then,  abruptly,  the  stillness  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  a  dislodged  stone. 
So  little  did  he  expect  the  foot  of  fellow-man, 
that  he  did  not  turn  at  what  he  thought  to  be 
the  slip  of  a  sheep.  But  when  upon  the  slope 
of  the  grass,  a  little  way  beyond  where  he 
stood,  a  dusky  blue  shadow  wavered  fantas- 
tically, he  swung  round  with  a  sudden  in- 
stinct of  dread. 

And  this  was  the  dread  which,  after  these 
long  weeks  since  he  had  come  to  Rona,  was 
upon  Alan  Carmichael. 

338 


The  Herdsman 

For  there,  standing  quietly  by  another 
boulder,  at  the  mouth  of  another  cave,  was  a 
man  in  all  appearance  identical  with  himself. 
Looking  at  this  apparition,  he  beheld  one  of 
the  same  height  as  himself,  with  hair  of  the 
same  hue,  with  eyes  the  same  and  features 
the  same,  with  the  same  carriage,  the  same 
smile,  the  same  expression.  No,  there,  and 
there  alone,  was  any  difference. 

Sick  at  heart,  Alan  wondered  if  he  looked 
upon  his  own  wraith.  Familiar  with  the  leg- 
ends of  his  people,  it  would  have  been  no 
strange  thing  to  him  that  there,  upon  the  hill- 
side, should  appear  the  wraith  of  himself. 
Had  not  old  Ian  Mclain — and  that,  too, 
though  far  away  in  a  strange  land — seen  the 
death  of  his  mother  moving  upward  from  her 
feet  to  her  knees,  from  her  knees  to  her 
waist,  from  her  waist  to  her  neck,  and,  just 
before  the  end,  how  the  shroud  darkened 
along  the  face  until  it  hid  the  eyes?  Had 
he  not  often  heard  from  her,  from  Ian,  of  the 
second  self  which  so  often  appears  beside  the 
living  when  already  the  shadow  of  doom  is 
upon  him  whose  hours  are  numbered?  Was 
this,  then,  the  reason  of  what  had  been  his  in- 
explicable gloom?  Was  he  indeed  at  the  ex- 
treme of  life?  Was  his  soul  amid  shallows, 
already   a    rock   upon   a   blank,   inhospitable 

339 


The  Herdsman 

shore?  If  not,  who  or  what  was  this  second 
self  which  leaned  there  negligently,  looking 
at  him  with  scornful  smiling  lips,  but  with 
intent,  unsmiling  eyes. 

Slowly  there  came  into  his  mind  this 
thought:  How  could  a  phantom,  that  was 
itself  intangible,  throw  a  shadow  upon  the 
grass,  as  though  it  were  a  living  body? 
Sure,  a  shadow  there  was  indeed.  It  lay  be- 
tween the  apparition  and  himself.  A  legend 
heard  in  boyhood  came  back  to  him ;  instinct- 
ively he  stooped  and  lifted  a  stone  and  flung 
it  midway  into  the  shadow. 

"  Go  back  into  the  darkness,"  he  cried,  "  if 
out  of  the  darkness  you  came;  but  if  you  be 
a  living  thing,  put  out  your  hands !  " 

The  shadow  remained  motionless.  When 
Alan  looked  again  at  his  second  self,  he  saw 
that  the  scorn  which  had  been  upon  the  lips 
was  now  in  the  eyes  also.  Ay,  for  sure, 
scornful  silent  laughter  it  was  that  lay  in  those 
cold  wells  of  light.  No  phantom  that;  a  man 
he,  even  as  Alan  himself.  His  heart  pulsed 
like  that  of  a  trapped  bird,  but  with  the 
spoken  word  his  courage  came  back  to  him. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
strange  even  in  his  own  ears. 

"  Am  BuachaiU,"  replied  the  man  in  a  voice 
as  low  and  strange.     "  I  am  the  Herdsman." 

340 


The  Herdsman 

A  new  tide  of  fear  surged  in  upon  Alan. 
That  voice,  was  it  not  his  own  ?  that  tone, 
was  it  not  famihar  in  his  ears?  When  the 
man  spoke,  he  heard  himself  speak;  sure,  if 
he  were  Am  Bnachaill  Ban,  Alan,  too,  was 
the  Herdsman,  though  what  fantastic  destiny 
might  be  his  was  all  unknown  to  him. 

"  Come  near,"  said  the  man,  and  now  the 
mocking  light  in  his  eyes  was  wild  as  cloud- 
fire — "come  near,  oh  Buachaill  Ban!" 

With  a  swift  movement,  Alan  sprang  for- 
ward ;  but  as  he  leaped,  his  foot  caught  in  a 
spray  of  heather,  and  he  stumbled  and  fell. 
When  he  rose,  he  looked  in  vain  for  the  man 
who  had  called  him.  There  was  not  a  sign, 
not  a  trace  of  any  living  being.  For  the  first 
few  moments  he  believed  it  had  all  been  a 
delusion.  Mortal  being  did  not  appear  and 
vanish  in  that  ghostly  way.  Still,  surely  he 
could  not  have  mistaken  the  blank  of  that 
place  for  a  speaking  voice,  or  out  of  nothing- 
ness have  fashioned  the  living  phantom  of 
himself?  Or  could  he?  With  that,  he  strode 
forward  and  peered  into  the  wide  arch  of  the 
cavern  by  which  the  man  had  stood.  He 
could  not  see  far  into  it ;  but  so  far  as  it  was 
possible  to  see,  he  discerned  neither  man  nor 
shadow  of  man,  nor  anything  that  stirred ;  no, 
not  even  the  gossamer  bloom  of  a  bearnan- 

341 


The  Herdsman 

bride,  that  grew  on  a  patch  of  grass  a  yard 
or  two  within  the  darkness,  had  lost  one  of 
its  delicate  filmy  spires.  He  drew  back,  dis- 
mayed. Then,  suddenly,  his  heart  leaped 
again,  for  beyond  all  question,  all  possible 
doubt,  there,  in  the  bent  thyme,  just  where 
the  man  had  stood,  was  the  imprint  of  his 
feet.  Even  now  the  green  sprays  were  mov- 
ing forward. 


Ill 


An  hour  passed,  and  Alan  Carmichael  had 
not  moved  from  the  entrance  to  the  cave.  So 
still  was  he  that  a  ewe,  listlessly  wandering  in 
search  of  cooler  grass,  lay  down  after  a  while, 
drowsily  regarding  him  with  her  amber-co- 
loured eyes.  All  his  thought  was  upon  the 
mystery  of  what  he  had  seen.  No  delusion 
this,  he  was  sure.  That  was  a  man  whom  he 
had  seen.  But  who  could  he  be?  On  so  small 
an  island,  inhabited  by  less  than  a  score  of 
crofters,  it  was  scarcely  possible  for  one  to 
live  for  many  weeks  and  not  know  the  name 
and  face  of  every  soul.  Still,  a  stranger 
might  have  come.  Only,  if  this  were  so,  why 
should  he  call  himself  the  Herdsman  ?  There 
was  but  one  herdsman  on  Rhona  and  he  An- 
gus MacCormic,  who  lived  at  Einaval  on  the; 

342 


The  Herdsman 

north  side.  In  these  outer  isles,  the  shepherd 
and  the  herdsman  are  appointed  by  the  com- 
munity, and  no  man  is  allowed  to  be  one  or 
the  other  at  will,  any  more  than  to  be  maor. 
Then,  too,  if  this  man  were  indeed  herds- 
man, where  was  his  iomair-ionailtair,  his 
browsing  tract?  Looking  round  him,  Alan 
could  perceive  nowhere  any  fitting  pasture. 
Surely  no  herdsman  would  be  content  with 
such  an  iomair  a  bhuachaill — rig  of  the 
herdsman — as  that  rocky  wilderness  where  the 
soft  green  grass  grew  in  patches  under  this 
or  that  boulder,  on  the  sun  side  of  this  or 
that  rocky  ledge.  Again,  he  had  given  no 
name,  but  called  himself  simply  Am  Bua- 
chaill.  This  was  how  the  woman  Morag  had 
spoken;  did  she  indeed  mean  this  very  man? 
and  if  so,  what  lay  in  her  words?  But  far 
beyond  all  other  bewilderment  for  him  was 
that  strange,  that  indeed  terrifying  likeness 
to  himself — a  likeness  so  absolute,  so  con- 
vincing, that  he  knew  he  might  himself  easily 
have  been  deceived,  had  he  beheld  the  appari- 
tion in  any  place  where  it  was  possible  that  a 
reflection  could  have  misled  him. 

"Brooding  thus,  eye  and  ear  were  both  alert 
for  the  faintest  sight  or  sound.  But  from  the 
interior  of  the  cavern  not  a  breath  came. 
Once,  from  among  the  jagged  rocks  high  on 

343 


The  Herdsman 

the  west  slope  of  Ben  Einaval,  he  fancied  he 
heard  an  unwonted  sound — that  of  human 
laughter,  but  laughter  so  wild,  so  remote,  so 
unmirthful,  that  fear  was  in  his  heart.  It 
could  not  be  other  than  imagination,  he  said 
to  himself;  for  in  that  lonely  place  there  was 
none  to  wander  idly  at  that  season,  and  none 
who,  wandering,  would  laugh  there  solitary. 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  Alan  at  last  de- 
termined to  probe  the  mystery.  Stooping,  he 
moved  cautiously  into  the  cavern,  and  groped 
his  way  along  the  narrow  passage  which  led, 
as  he  thought,  into  another  larger  cave.  But 
this  proved  to  be  one  of  the  innumerable 
blind  ways  which  intersect  the  honeycombed 
slopes  of  the  Isle  of  Caves.  To  wander  far  in 
these  lightless  passages  would  be  to  track 
death.  Long  ago  the  piper  whom  the  Pri- 
onnsa-Ban,  the  Fair  Prince,  loved  to  hear 
in  his  exile — he  that  was  called  Rory  M'Vur- 
ich — penetrated  one  of  the  larger  hollows  to 
seek  there  for  a  child  that  had  idly  wandered 
into  the  dark.  Some  of  the  clansmen,  with 
the  father  and  mother  of  the  little  one,  waited 
at  the  entrance  to  the  cave.  For  a  time  there 
was  silence ;  then,  as  agreed  upon,  the  sound 
of  the  pipes  was  heard,  to  which  a  man 
named  Lachlan  M'Lachlan  replied  from  the 
outer  air.    The  skirl  of  the  pipes  within  grew 

344 


The  Herdsman 

fainter  and  fainter.  Louder  and  louder  Lach- 
lan  played  upon  his  chanter;  deeper  and 
deeper  grew  the  wild  moaning  of  the  drone ; 
but  for  all  that,  fainter  and  fainter  waned  the 
sound  of  the  pipes  of  Rory  M'Vurich.  Gen- 
erations have  come  and  gone  upon  the  isle, 
and  still  no  man  has  heard  the  returning  air 
which  Rory  was  to  play.  He  may  have  found 
the  little  child,  but  he  never  found  his  back- 
ward path,  and  in  the  gloom  of  that  honey- 
combed hill  he  and  the  child  and  the  music  of 
the  pipes  lapsed  into  the  same  stillness.  Re- 
membering this  legend,  familiar  to  him  since 
his  boyhood,  Alan  did  not  dare  to  venture 
further.  At  any  moment,  too,  he  knew  he 
might  fall  into  one  of  the  crevices  which 
opened  into  the  sea-corridors  hundreds  of  feet 
below.  Ancient  rumour  had  it  that  there 
were  mysterious  passages  from  the  upper 
heights  of  Ben  Einaval  which  led  into  the 
heart  of  this  perilous  maze.  But  for  a  time 
he  lay  still,  straining  every  sense.  Convinced 
at  last  that  the  man  whom  he  sought  had 
evaded  all  possible  quest,  he  turned  to  re- 
gain the  light.  Brief  way  as  he  had  gone,  this 
was  no  easy  thing  to  do.  For  a  few  moments, 
indeed,  Alan  lost  his  self-possession  when  he 
found  a  uniform  dusk  about  him,  and  could 
not  discern  which  of   the  several  branching 

345 


The  Herdsman 

narrow  corridors  was  that  by  which  he  had 
come.  But  following  the  greener  light,  he 
reached  the  cave,  and  soon,  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief, was  upon  the  sun-sweet  warm  earth 
again. 

How  more  than  ever  beautiful  the  world 
seemed !  how  sweet  to  the  eyes  were  upland 
and  cliff,  the  wide  stretch  of  ocean,  the  fly- 
ing birds,  the  sheep  grazing  on  the  scanty 
pastures,  and,  above  all,  the  homely  blue 
smoke  curling  faintly  upward  from  the  fisher 
crofts  on  the  headland  east  of  Aonaig! 

Purposely  he  retraced  his  steps  by  the  way 
of  the  glen :  he  would  see  the  woman  Morag 
MacNeill  again,  and  insist  on  some  more  ex- 
plicit word.  But  when  he  reached  the  burn- 
side  once  more,  the  woman  was  not  there. 
Possibly  she  had  seen  him  coming,  and  guessed 
his  purpose;  half  he  surmised  this,  for  the 
peats  in  the  hearth  were  brightly  aglow,  and 
on  the  hob  beside  them  the  boiling  water 
hissed  in  a  great  iron  pot  wherein  were  po- 
tatoes. In  vain  he  sought,  in  vain  called.  Im- 
patient, he  walked  around  the  bothie  and  into 
the  little  byre  beyond.  The  place  was  de- 
serted. This,  small  matter  as  it  was,  added 
to  his  disquietude.  Resolved  to  sift  the  mys- 
tery, he  walked  swiftly  down  the  slope.  By 
the  old  shealing  of  Cnoc-na-Monie,  now  for- 

346 


The  Herdsman 

saken,  his  heart  leaped  at  sight  of  Ian  coming 
to  meet  him. 

When  they  met,  Alan  put  his  hands  loving- 
ly on  the  old  man's  shoulders,  and  looked  at 
him  with  questioning  eyes.  He  found  rest 
and  hope  in  those  deep  pools  of  quiet  light, 
whence  the  faithful  love  rose  comfortingly  to 
meet  his  own  yearning  gaze. 

"  What  is  it,  Alan-mo-ghray ;  what  is  the 
trouble  that  is  upon  you?" 

"  It  is  a  trouble,  Ian,  but  one  of  which  I  can 
speak  little,  for  it  is  little  I  know." 

"  Now,  now,  for  sure  you  must  tell  me 
what  it  is." 

"  I  have  seen  a  man  here  upon  Rona  whom 
I  have  not  seen  or  met  before,  and  it  is  one 
whose  face  is  known  to  me,  and  whose  voice 
too,  and  one  whom  I  would  not  meet  again." 

"  Did  he  give  you  no  name?  " 

"  None." 

"  Where  did  he  come  from  ?  Where  did 
he  go  to?  " 

"  He  came  out  of  the  shadow,  and  into  the 
shadow  he  went." 

Ian  looked  steadfastly  at  Alan,  his  wistful 
gaze  searching  deep  into  his  unquiet  eyes,  and 
thence  from  feature  to  feature  of  the  face 
which  had  become  strangely  worn  of  late. 

But  he  questioned  no  further. 

347 


The  Herdsman 

"  I,  too,  Alan  MacAilean,  have  heard  a 
strange  thing  to-day.  You  know  old  Marsail 
Macrae?  She  is  ill  now  with  a  slow  fever, 
and  she  thinks  that  the  shadow  which  she 
saw  lying  upon  her  hearth  last  Sabbath, 
when  nothing  was  there  to  cause  any  sha- 
dow, was  her  own  death,  come  for  her,  and 
now  waiting  there.  I  spoke  to  the  old 
woman,  but  she  would  not  have  peace,  and 
her  eyes  looked  at  me. 

"  '  What  will  it  be  now,  Marsail  ? '  I  asked. 

" '  Ay,  ay,  for  sure,'  she  said,  '  it  was  I 
who  saw  you  first.' 

"'Saw  me  first,  Marsail?' 

"  '  Ay,  you  and  Alan  MacAilean.' 

"  '  When  and  where  was  this  sight  upon 
you?  ' 

" '  It  was  one  month  before  you  and  he 
came  to  Rhona.' 

"  I  asked  the  poor  old  woman  to  be  telling 
me  her  meaning.  At  first  I  could  make  little 
of  what  was  said,  for  she  muttered  low,  and 
moved  her  head  this  way  and  that,  and  moaned 
like  a  stricken  ewe.  But  on  my  taking  her 
hand,  she  looked  at  me  again,  and  then 
told  me  this  thing — 

"  *  On  the  seventh  day  of  the  month  before 
you  came — and  by  the  same  token  it  was  on 
the  seventh  day  of  the  month  following  that 

348 


The  Herdsman 

you  and  Alan  MacAilean  came  to  Caisteal- 
Rhona — I  was  upon  the  shore  at  Aonaig,  Hs- 
tening  to  the  crying  of  the  wind  against  the 
great  cHff  of  Biola-creag.  With  me  were 
Ruaridh  Macrae  and  Neil  MacNeill,  Morag 
MacNeill,  and  her  sister  Elsa;  and  we  were 
singing  the  hymn  for  those  who  were  out  on 
the  wild  sea  that  was  roaring  white  against 
the  cliffs  of  Bemeray,  for  some  of  our  peo- 
ple were  there,  and  we  feared  for  them. 
Sometimes  one  sang,  and  sometimes  another. 
And,  sure,  it  is  remembering  I  am,  how, 
when  I  had  called  out  with  my  old  wailing 
voice — 

"  '  Bi  'eadh  an  Tri-aon  leinn,  a  la's  a  dh-oidche; 
'  S  air  chul  nan  tonn,  A  Mhoire  ghradhach! 

(Be  the  Three-in-One  with  us  day  and  night ; 
And  on  the  crested  wave,  O  Mary  Beloved!) 

"  *  Now  when  I  had  just  sung  this,  and  we 
were  all  listening  to  the  sound  of  it  caught  by 
the  wind  and  blown  up  against  the  black  face 
of  Biola-creag,  I  saw  a  boat  come  sailing  into 
the  haven.  I  called  out  to  those  about  me, 
but  they  looked  at  me  with  white  faces,  for 
no  boat  was  there,  and  it  was  a  rough,  wild 
sea  it  was  in  that  haven. 

"  '  And  in  that  boat  I  saw  three  people  sit- 

349 


The  Herdsman 

ting;  and  one  was  you,  Ian  Maclain,  and  one 
was  Alan  MacAilean,  and  one  was  a  man  who 
had  his  face  in  shadow,  and  his  eyes  looked 
into  the  shadow  at  his  feet.  I  saw  you  clear, 
and  told  those  about  me  what  I  saw.  And 
Seumas  MacNeill,  him  that  is  dead  now,  and 
brother  to  Neil  here  at  Aonaig,  he  said  to  me, 
"  Who  was  that  whom  you  saw  walking  in 
the  dusk  the  night  before  last?" — "  Ailean 
MacAlasdair  Carmichael,"  answered  one  at 
that.  Seumas  muttered,  looking  at  those 
about  him,  "  Mark  what  I  say,  for  it  is  a  true 
thing — that  Ailean  Carmichael  of  Rhona  is 
dead  now,  because  Marsail  saw  him  walking 
in  the  dusk  when  he  was  not  upon  the  island ; 
and  now,  you  Neil,  and  you  Rory,  and  all  of 
you,  will  be  for  thinking  with  me  that  one  of 
the  men  in  the  boat  whom  Marsail  sees  now 
will  be  the  son  of  him  who  has  changed." 

"  '  Well,  well,  it  is  a  true  thing  that  we  each 
of  us  thought  that  thought,  but  when  the 
days  went  and  nothing  more  came  of  it,  the 
memory  of  the  seeing  went  too.  Then  there 
came  the  day  when  the  coble  of  Aulay  Mac- 
Aulay  came  out  of  Borosay  into  Caisteal- 
Rhona  haven.  Glad  we  were  to  see  your  face 
again,  Ian  Mclain,  and  to  hear  the  sob  of  joy 
coming  out  of  the  heart  of  Giorsal  your  sis- 
ter; but  when  you  and  Alan  MacAilean  came 

350 


The  Herdsman 

on  shore,  it  was  my  voice  that  then  went  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  for  I  whispered  to  Morag 
MacNeill  who  was  next  me  that  you  were  the 
men  I  had  seen  in  the  boat.' 

"  Well,  after  that,"  Ian  added,  with  a 
grave  smile,  "  I  spoke  gently  to  old  Marsail, 
and  told  her  that  there  was  no  evil  in  that 
seeing,  and  that  for  sure  it  was  nothing  at  all, 
at  all,  to  see  two  people  in  a  boat,  and  nothing 
coming  of  that,  save  happiness  for  those  two, 
and  glad  content  to  be  here. 

"  Marsail  looked  at  me  with  big  eyes. 

"  But  when  I  asked  her  what  she  meant  by 
that,  she  would  say  no  more.  No  asking  of 
mine  would  bring  the  word  to  her  lips,  only 
she  shook  her  head  and  kept  her  gaze  from 
my  face.  Then,  seeing  that  it  was  useless,  I 
said  to  her — 

"  *  Marsail,  tell  me  this :  Was  this  sight  of 
yours  the  sole  thing  that  made  the  people 
here  on  Rona  look  askance  at  Alan  Mac- 
Ailean  ?  ' 

"  For  a  time  she  stared  at  me  with  dim 
eyes,  then  suddenly  she  spoke — 

"  '  It  is  not  all.' 

" '  Then  what  more  is  there,  Marsail 
Macrae  ? ' 

That  is  not  for  the  saying.     I  have  no 
more  to  say.     Let  you,  or  Alan  MacAilean, 

351 


TJie  Herdsman 

go  elsewhere.  That  which  is  to  be,  will  be. 
To  each  his  own  end.' 

"  '  Then  be  telling  me  this  now  at  least,'  I 
asked :  '  is  there  danger  for  him  or  me  in  this 
island  ? ' 

"  But  the  poor  old  woman  would  say  no 
more,  and  then  I  saw  a  swoon  was  on  her." 

After  this,  Alan  and  Ian  walked  slowly 
home  together,  both  silent,  and  each  revolv- 
ing in  his  mind  as  in  a  dim  dusk  that  mys- 
tery which,  vague  and  unreal  at  first,  had 
now  become  a  living  presence,  and  haunted 
them  by  day  and  night. 


IV 


"  In  the  shadow  of  pain,  one  may  hear  the 
footsteps  of  joy."    So  runs  a  proverb  of  old. 

It  was  a  true  saying  for  Alan.  That  night 
he  lay  down  in  pain,  his  heart  heavy  with  the 
weight  of  a  mysterious  burden.  On  the  mor- 
row he  woke  blithely  to  a  new  day — a  day  of 
absolute  beauty.  The  whole  wide  wilderness 
of  ocean  was  of  living  azure,  aflame  with 
gold  and  silver.  Around  the  promontories  of 
the  isles  the  brown-sailed  fishing-boats  of 
Barra  and  Berneray,  of  Borosay  and  Seila, 
moved  blithely   hither   and   thither.      Every- 

352 


The  Herdsman 

where  the  rhythm  of  Hfe  pulsed  swift  and 
strong.  The  first  sound  which  had  awak- 
ened Alan  was  of  a  loud  singing  of  fishermen 
who  were  putting  out  from  Aonaig.  The 
coming  of  a  great  shoal  of  mackerel  had 
been  signalled,  and  every  man  and  woman  of 
the  near  isles  was  alert  for  the  take.  The 
watchers  had  known  it  by  the  swift  congrega- 
tion of  birds,  particularly  the  gannets  and 
skuas.  And  as  the  men  pulled  at  the  oars,  or 
hoisted  the  brown  sails,  they  sang  a  snatch  of 
an  old-world  tune,  still  chanted  at  the  first 
coming  of  the  birds  when  spring-tide  is  on  the 
flow  again — 

"Bui'  cheas  dha  'n  Ti  thaine  na  Gugachan 

Thaine's  na  h-Eoin-Mhora  cuideriu, 

Cailin  dugh  ciaru  bo's  a  chro! 

Bo  dhonn !  bo  dhonn !  bo  dhonn  bheadarrach ! 

Bo  dhonn  a  ruin  a  bhlitheadh  am  baine  dhuit 

Ho  ro!  mo  gheallag!  ni  gu  rodagach! 

Cailin  dugh  ciaru  bo's  a  chro — 

Na  h-eoin  air  tighinn!  cluinneam  an  ceol!" 

(Thanks  to  the  Being,  the  Gannets  have  come. 
Yes!  and  the  Great  Auks  along  with  them. 
Dark-haired  girl! — a  cow  in  the  fold! 
Brown  cow!  brown  cow !  brown  cow,  beloved  ho  I 
Brown  cow!  my  love!   the  milker  of  milk  to 

thee! 
Ho  ro!  my  fair-skinned  girl — a  cow,  in  the  fold, 
And  the  birds  have  come ! — glad  sight,  I  see !) 

353 


The  Herdsman 

Eager  to  be  of  help,  Ian  put  off  in  his  boat, 
and  was  soon  among  the  fishermen,  who  in 
their  new  excitement  were  forgetful  of  all 
else  than  that  the  mackerel  were  come,  and 
that  every  moment  was  precious.  For  the 
first  time  Ian  found  himself  no  unwelcome 
comrade.  Was  it,  he  wondered,  because  that, 
there  upon  the  sea,  whatever  of  shadow 
dwelled  about  him,  or  rather  about  Alan 
MacAilean,  on  the  land,  was  no  longer  vis- 
ible. 

All  through  that  golden  noon  he  and  the 
others  worked  hard.  From  isle  to  isle  went 
the  chorus  of  the  splashing  oars  and  splash- 
ing nets ;  of  the  splashing  of  the  fish  and  the 
splashing  of  gannets  and  gulls ;  of  the  splash- 
ing of  the  tide  leaping  blithely  against  the 
sun-dazzle,  and  the  illimitable  rippling  splash 
moving  out  of  the  west; — all  this  blent  with 
the  loud,  joyous  cries,  the  laughter,  and  the 
hoarse  shouts  of  the  men  of  Barra  and  the 
adjacent  islands.  It  was  close  upon  dusk  be- 
fore the  Rhona  boats  put  into  the  haven  of 
Aonaig  again;  and  by  that  time  none  was 
blither  than  Ian  Maclain,  who  in  that  day 
of  happy  toil  had  lost  all  the  gloom  and 
apprehension  of  the  day  before,  and  now  re- 
turned to  Caisteal-Rhona  with  lighter  heart 
than  he  had  known  for  long. 

354 


The  Herdsman 

When,  however,  he  got  there,  there  was  no 
sign  of  Alan.  He  had  gone,  said  Giorsal,  he 
had  gone  out  in  the  smaller  boat  midway 
in  the  afternoon,  and  had  sailed  around  to 
Aoidhu,  the  great  scaur  which  ran  out  be- 
yond the  precipices  at  the  south-west  of 
Rhona. 

This  Alan  often  did,  and  of  late  more  and 
more  often.  Ever  since  he  had  come  to  the 
Hebrid  Isles  his  love  of  the  sea  had  deepened 
and  had  grown  into  a  passion  for  its  mystery 
and  beauty.  Of  late,  too,  something  impelled 
to  a  more  frequent  isolation,  a  deep  longing 
to  be  where  no  eye  could  see  and  no  ear 
hearken. 

So  at  first  Ian  was  in  no  way  alarmed. 
But  when  the  sun  had  set,  and  over  the  faint 
blue  film  of  the  Isle  of  Tiree  the  moon  had 
risen,  and  still  no  sign  of  Alan,  he  became 
restless  and  uneasy.  Giorsal  begged  him  in 
vain  to  eat  of  the  supper  she  had  prepared. 
Idly  he  moved  to  and  fro  along  the  rocky 
ledge,  or  down  by  the  pebbly  shore,  or  across 
the  green  airidh,  eager  for  a  glimpse  of  him 
whom  he  loved  so  well. 

At  last,  unable  longer  to  endure  a  growing 
anxiety,  he  put  out  in  his  boat,  and  sailed 
swiftly  before  the  slight  easterly  breeze  which 
had    prevailed    since    moonrise.     So    far    as 

355 


The  Herdsman 

Aoidhu,  all  the  way  from  Aonaig,  there  was 
not  a  haven  anywhere,  nor  even  one  of  the 
sea  caverns  which  honeycombed  the  isle 
beyond  the  headland.  A  glance,  therefore, 
showed  him  that  Alan  had  not  yet  come  back 
that  way.  It  was  possible,  though  unlikely, 
that  he  had  sailed  right  round  Rona ;  unlikely, 
because  in  the  narrow  straits  to  the  north,  be- 
tween Rona  and  the  scattered  islets  known 
as  the  Innsemhara,  strong  currents  prevailed, 
and  particularly  at  the  full  of  the  tide,  when 
they  swept  north-eastward  dark  and  swift  as 
a  mill-race. 

Once  the  headland  was  passed  and  the 
sheer  precipitous  westward  cliffs  loomed 
black  out  of  the  sea,  he  became  more  and 
more  uneasy.  As  yet,  there  was  no  danger; 
but  he  saw  that  a  swell  was  moving  out  of 
the  west;  and  whenever  the  wind  blew  that 
way,  the  sea-arcades  were  filled  with  a  lift- 
ing, perilous  wave.  Later,  escape  might  be 
difficult,  and  often  impossible.  Out  of  the 
score  or  more  great  passages  which  opened  be- 
tween Aoidhu  and  Ardgorm,  it  was  difficult 
to  know  into  which  to  chance  the  search  of 
Alan.  Together  they  had  examined  all  of 
them.  Some  twisted  but  slightly;  others 
wound  sinuously  till  the  green,  serpentine 
alleys,  flanked   by  basalt  walls   hundreds  of 


The  Herdsman 

feet  high,  lost  themselves  in  an  indistinguish- 
able maze. 

But  that  which  was  safest,  and  wherein  a 
boat  could  most  easily  make  its  way  against 
wind  or  tide,  was  the  huge,  cavernous  pas- 
sage known  locally  as  the  Uaimh-nan-roin, 
the  Cave  of  the  Seals. 

For  this  opening  Ian  steered  his  boat. 
Soon  he  was  within  the  wide  corridor.  Like 
the  great  cave  at  Staffa,  it  was  wrought  as  an 
aisle  in  some  natural  cathedral;  the  rocks, 
too,  were  columnar,  and  rose  in  flawless  sym- 
metry, as  though  graven  by  the  hand  of  man. 
At  the  far  end  of  this  gigantic  aisle,  there  di- 
verges a  long,  narrow  arcade,  filled  by  day 
with  the  green  shine  of  the  water,  and  by 
night,  when  the  moon  is  up,  with  a  pale  froth 
of  light.  It  is  one  of  the  few  where  there 
are  open  gateways  for  the  sea  and  the  wan- 
dering light,  and  by  its  spherical  shape  almost 
the  only  safe  passage  in  a  season  of  heavy 
wind.  Half-way  along  this  arched  arcade  a 
corridor  leads  to  a  round  cup-like  cavern, 
midway  in  which  stands  a  huge  mass  of 
black  basalt,  in  shape  suggestive  of  a  titanic 
altar.  Thus  it  must  have  impressed  the  imag- 
ination of  the  islanders  of  old;  for  by  them, 
even  in  a  remote  day,  it  was  called  Teampull- 
Alara,  the  Temple  of  the  Sea.    Owing  to  the 

357 


The  Herdsman 

narrowness  of  the  passage,  and  to  the  smooth, 
unbroken  walls  which  rise  sheer  from  the 
green  depths  into  an  invisible  darkness,  the 
Strait  of  the  Temple  is  not  one  wherein  to 
linger  long,  save  in  a  time  of  calm. 

Instinctively,  however,  Ian  quietly  headed 
his  boat  along  this  narrow  way.  When,  si- 
lently, he  emerged  from  the  arcade,  he  could 
just  discern  the  mass  of  basalt  at  the  far 
end  of  the  cavern.  But  there,  seated  in 
his  boat,  was  Alan,  apparently  idly  adrift, 
for  one  oar  floated  in  the  water  alongside, 
and  the  other  swung  listlessly  from  the 
tholes. 

His  heart  had  a  suffocating  grip  as  he  saw 
him  whom  he  had  come  to  seek.  Why  that 
absolute  stillness,  that  strange,  listless  indif- 
ference? For  a  dreadful  moment  he  feared 
death  had  indeed  come  to  him  in  that  lonely 
place  where,  as  an  ancient  legend  had  it,  a 
woman  of  old  time  had  perished,  and  ever 
since  had  wrought  death  upon  any  who  came 
thither  solitary  and  unhappy. 

But  at  the  striking  of  the  shaft  of  his  oar 
against  a  ledge,  Alan  moved,  and  looked  at 
him  with  startled  eyes.  Half  rising  from 
where  he  crouched  in  the  stern,  he  called  to 
him  in  a  voice  that  had  in  it  something 
strangely  unfamiliar. 

358 


The  Herdsman 

"  I  will  not  hear !  "  he  cried.  "  I  will  not 
hear  !    Leave  me !     Leave  me !  " 

Fearing  that  the  desolation  of  the  place  had 
wrought  upon  his  mind,  Ian  swiftly  moved 
toward  him,  and  the  next  moment  his  boat 
glided  alongside.  Stepping  from  the  one  to 
the  other,  he  kneeled  beside  him. 

"  Ailean  mo  caraid,  Ailean-aghray,  what  is 
it?  What  gives  you  dread?  There  is  no 
harm  here.  All  is  well.  Look!  See,  it  is  I, 
lan^ — old  Ian  Maclain!  Listen,  mo  ghaoil; 
do  you  not  know  me — do  you  not  know 
who  I  am?  It  is  I,  Ian;  Ian  who  loves 
you !  " 

Even  in  that  obscure  light  he  could  clearly 
discern  the  pale  face,  and  his  heart  smote  him 
as  he  saw  Alan's  eyes  turn  upon  him  with  a 
glance  wild  and  mournful.  Had  he  indeed 
succumbed  to  the  sea  madness  which  ever 
and  again  strikes  into  a  terrible  melancholy 
one  here  and  there  among  those  who  dwell 
in  the  remote  isles?  But  even  as  he  looked, 
he  noted  another  expression  come  into  the 
wild  strained  eyes ;  and  almost  before  he  real- 
ised what  had  happened,  Alan  was  on  his  feet 
and  pointing  with  rigid  arm. 

For  there,  in  that  nigh  unreachable  and  for 
ever  unvisited  solitude,  was  the  figure  of  a 
man.    He  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  huge 

359 


The  Herdsman 

basalt  altar,  and  appeared  to  have  sprung 
from  out  the  rock,  or,  himself  a  shadowy 
presence,  to  have  grown  out  of  the  obscure 
unrealities  of  the  darkness.  Ian  stared,  fas- 
cinated, speechless. 

Then  with  a  spring  he  was  on  the  ledge. 
Swift  and  sure  as  a  wild  cat,  he  scaled  the 
huge  mass  of  the  altar. 

Nothing ;  no  one !  There  was  not  a  trace 
of  any  human  being.  Not  a  bird,  not  a  bat; 
nothing.  Moreover,  even  in  that  slowly 
blackening  darkness,  he  could  see  that  there 
was  no  direct  connection  between  the  summit 
or  side  with  the  blank,  precipitous  wall  of  ba- 
salt beyond.  Overhead  there  was,  so  far  as 
he  could  discern,  a  vault.  No  human  being 
could  have  descended  through  that  perilous 
gulf. 

Was  the  island  haunted?  he  wondered,  as 
slowly  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  boat.  Or 
had  he  been  startled  into  some  wild  fantasy, 
and  imagined  a  likeness  where  none  had 
been  ?  Perhaps  even  he  had  not  really  seen 
any  one.  He  had  heard  of  such  things.  The 
nerves  can  soon  chase  the  mind  into  the 
shadow  wherein  it  loses  itself. 

Or  was  Alan  the  vain  dreamer?  That,  in- 
deed, might  well  be.  Mayhap  he  had  heard 
some  fantastic  tale  from  Morag  MacNeill,  or 
360 


The  Herdsman 

from  old  Marsail  Macrae;  the  islanders  had 
sgcul  after  sgcul  of  a  wild  strangeness. 

In  silence  he  guided  the  boats  back  into  the 
outer  arcade,  where  a  faint  sheen  of  moon- 
light glistered  on  the  water.  Thence,  in  a 
few  minutes,  he  oared  that  wherein  he  and 
Alan  sat,  with  the  other  fastened  astern,  into 
the  open. 

When  the  moonshine  lay  full  on  Alan's 
face,  Ian  saw  that  he  was  thinking  neither  of 
himself  nor  of  where  he  was.  His  eyes  were 
heavy  with  dream. 

What  wind  there  was  blew  against  their 
course,  so  Ian  rowed  unceasingly.  In  silence 
they  passed  once  again  the  headland  of 
Aoidhu ;  in  silence  they  drifted  past  a  single 
light  gleaming  in  a  croft  near  Aonaig — a  red 
eye  staring  out  into  the  shadow  of  the  sea, 
from  the  room  where  the  woman  Marsail  lay 
dying ;  and  in  silence  their  keels  grided  on  the 
patch  of  shingle  in  Caisteal-Rhona  haven. 

For  days  thereafter  Alan  haunted  that 
rocky,  cavernous  wilderness  where  he  had 
seen  the  Herdsman. 

It  was  in  vain  he  had  sought  everywhere 
for  some  tidings  of  this  mysterious  dweller 
in  those  upland  solitudes.  At  times  he  be- 
lieved that  there  was  indeed  some  one  upon 

361 


The  Herdsman 

the  island  of  whom,  for  inexpHcable  reasons, 
none  there  would  speak;  but  at  last  he  came 
to  the  conviction  that  what  he  had  seen  was 
an  apparition, '  projected  by  the  fantasy  of 
overwrought  nerves.  Even  from  the  woman 
Morag  MacNeill,  to  whom  he  had  gone  with 
a  frank  appeal  that  won  its  way  to  her  heart, 
he  learned  no  more  than  that  an  old  legend,  of 
which  she  did  not  care  to  speak,  was  in  some 
way  associated  with  his  own  coming  to  Rona. 

Ian,  too,  never  once  alluded  to  the  mys- 
terious incident  of  the  green  arcades  which 
had  so  deeply  impressed  them  both:  never 
after  Alan  had  told  him  that  he  had  seen  a 
vision. 

But  as  the  days  passed,  and  as  no  word  came 
to  either  of  any  unknown  person  who  was  on 
the  island,  and  as  Alan,  for  all  his  patient 
wandering  and  furtive  quest,  both  among  the 
upland  caves  and  in  the  green  arcades,  found 
absolutely  no  traces  of  him  whom  he  sought, 
the  belief  that  he  had  been  duped  by  his  imag- 
ination deepened  almost  to  conviction. 

As  for  Ian,  he,  unlike  Alan,  became  more 
and  more  convinced  that  what  he  had  seen 
was  indeed  no  apparition.  Whatever  linger- 
ing doubt  he  had  was  dissipated  on  the  eve 
of  the  night  when  old  Marsail  Macrae  died. 
It  was  dusk  when  word  came  to  Caisteal- 
362 


The  Herdsman 

Rhona  that  Marsail  felt  the  cold  wind  on  the 
soles  of  her  feet,  Ian  went  to  her  at  once, 
and  it  was  in  the  dark  hour  which  followed 
that  he  heard  once  more,  and  more  fully,  the 
strange  story  which,  like  a  poisonous  weed, 
had  taken  root  in  the  minds  of  the  islanders. 
Already  from  Marsail  he  had  heard  of  the 
Prophet,  though,  strangely  enough,  he  had 
never  breathed  word  of  this  to  Alan,  not 
even  when,  after  the  startling  episode  of  the 
apparition  in  the  Teampull-Mara,  he  had,  as 
he  believed,  seen  the  Prophet  himself.  But 
there  in  the  darkness  of  the  low,  turfed  cot- 
tage, with  no  light  in  the  room  save  the  dull 
red  gloom  from  the  heart  of  the  smoored 
peats,  Marsail,  in  the  attenuated,  remote 
voice  of  those  who  have  already  entered  into 
the  vale  of  the  shadow,  told  him  this  thing,  in 
the  homelier  Gaelic — 

"Yes,  Ian  mac  Iain-Ban,  I  will  be  telling 
you  this  thing  before  I  change.  You  are  for 
knowing,  sure,  that  long  ago  Uilleam,  brother 
of  him  who  was  father  to  the  lad  up  at  the 
castle  yonder,  had  a  son?  Yes,  you  know 
that,  you  say,  and  also  that  he  was  called 
Donnacha  Ban?  No,  mo-caraid,  that  is  not 
a  true  thing  that  you  have  heard,  that  Donna- 
cha Ban  went  under  the  waves  years  ago.  He 
was  the  seventh  son,  an'  was  born  under  the 

363 


The  Herdsman 

full  moon ;  'tis  Himself  will  be  knowing 
whether  that  was  for  or  against  him.  Of 
these  seven  none  lived  beyond  childhood  ex- 
cept the  two  youngest,  Kenneth  an'  Donna- 
cha.  Kenneth  was  always  frail  as  a  February 
flower,  but  he  lived  to  be  a  man.  He  an'  his 
brother  never  spoke,  for  a  feud  was  between 
them,  not  only  because  that  each  was  unlike 
the  other,  an'  the  younger  hated  the  older  be- 
cause through  him  he  was  the  penniless  one, 
but  most  because  both  loved  the  same  woman. 
I  am  not  for  telling  you  the  whole  story  now, 
for  the  breath  in  my  body  will  soon  blow  out  in 
the  draught  that  is  coming  upon  me ;  but  this  I 
will  say  to  you :  darker  and  darker  grew  the 
gloom  between  these  brothers.  When  Gior- 
sal  Macdonald  gave  her  love  to  Kenneth, 
Donnacha  disappeared  for  a  time.  Then,  one 
day,  he  came  back  to  Borosay,  an'  smiled 
quietly  with  his  cold  eyes  when  they  won- 
dered at  his  coming  again.  Now,  too,  it  was 
noticed  that  he  no  longer  had  an  ill-will  upon 
his  brother,  but  spoke  smoothly  with  him  an' 
loved  to  be  in  his  company.  But  to  this  day 
no  one  knows  for  sure  what  happened.  For 
there  was  a  gloaming  when  Donnacha  Ban 
came  back  alone  in  his  sailing-boat.  He  an' 
Kenneth  had  sailed  forth,  he  said,  to  shoot 
seals  in  the  sea-arcades  to  the  west  of  Rona, 

364 


The  Herdsman 

but  in  these  dark  and  lonely  passages  they  had 
missed  each  other.  At  last  he  had  heard 
Kenneth's  voice  calling  for  help,  but  when 
he  had  got  to  the  place  it  was  too  late,  for  his 
brother  had  been  seized  with  the  cramps,  an' 
had  sunk  deep  into  the  fathomless  water. 
There  is  no  getting  a  body  again  that  sinks  in 
these  sea-galleries.     The  crabs  know  that. 

■'  Well,  this  and  much  more  was  what 
Donnacha  Ban  told  to  his  people.  None  be- 
lieved him ;  but  what  could  any  do  ?  There 
was  no  proof ;  none  had  ever  seen  them  enter 
the  sea-caves  together.  Not  that  Donnacha 
Ban  sought  in  any  way  to  keep  back  those  who 
would  fain  know  more.  Not  so ;  he  strove  to 
help  to  find  the  body.  Nevertheless,  none  be- 
lieved ;  an'  Giorsal  nic  Dugall  Mor  least  of 
all.  The  blight  of  that  sorrow  went  to  her 
heart.  She  had  death  soon,  poor  thing!  but 
before  the  cold  greyness  was  upon  her  she 
told  her  father,  an'  the  minister  that  was 
there,  that  she  knew  Donnacha  Ban  had  mur- 
dered his  brother.  One  might  be  saying  these 
were  the  wild  words  of  a  woman ;  but,  for 
sure,  no  one  said  that  thing  upon  Borosay  or 
Rona,  or  any  of  these  isles.  When  all  was 
done,  the  minister  told  what  he  knew,  an' 
what  he  thought,  to  the  Lord  of  the  South 
Isles,   and   asked   what   was   to   be   put   upon 

365 


The  Herdsman 

Donnacha  Ban.  '  Exile  for  ever,'  said  the 
chief,  '  or  if  he  stays  here,  the  doom  of  si- 
lence. Let  no  man  or  woman  speak  to  him  or 
give  him  food  or  drink,  or  give  him  shelter,  or 
let  his  shadow  cross  his  or  hers.' 

"  When  this  thing  was  told  to  Donnacha 
Ban  Carmichael,  he  laughed  at  first;  but  as 
day  after  day  slid  over  the  rocks  where  all 
days  fall,  he  laughed  no  more.  Soon  he  saw 
that  the  chief's  word  was  no  empty  word; 
an'  yet  would  not  go  away  from  his  own 
place.  He  could  not  stay  upon  Borosay,  for 
his  father  cursed  him ;  an'  no  man  can  stay 
upon  the  island  where  a  father's  curse  moves 
this  way  an'  that,  for  ever  seeing  him. 
Then,  some  say  a  madness  came  upon  him, 
and  others  that  he  took  wildness  to  be  his 
way,  and  others  that  God  put  upon  him  the 
shadow  of  loneliness,  so  that  he  might  meet 
sorrow  there  and  repent.  Howsoever  that 
may  be,  Donnacha  Ban  came  to  Rona,  an' 
by  the  same  token,  it  was  the  year  of  the 
great  blight,  when  the  potatoes  and  the  corn 
came  to  naught,  an'  when  the  fish  in  the  sea 
swam  away  from  the  isles.  In  the  autumn  of 
that  year  there  was  not  a  soul  left  on  Rona 
except  Giorsal  an'  the  old  man  Ian,  her 
father,  who  had  guard  of  Caisteal-Rhona  for 
him    who   was    absent.      When,    once    more, 

366 


The  Herdsman 

years  after,  smoke  rose  from  the  crofts,  the 
saying  spread  that  Donnacha  Ban,  the  mur- 
derer, had  made  his  home  among  the  caves 
of  the  upper  part  of  the  isle.  None  knew 
how  this  saying  rose,  for  he  was  seen  of  none. 
The  last  man  who  saw  him — an'  that  was  a 
year  later — was  old  Padruig  M'Vurich  the 
shepherd.  Padruig  said  that,  as  he  was  driv- 
ing his  ewes  across  the  north  slope  of  Ben 
Einaval  in  the  gloaming,  he  came  upon  a  si- 
lent figure  seated  upon  a  rock,  with  his  chin 
in  his  hands,  an'  his  elbows  on  his  knees — 
with  the  great,  sad  eyes  of  him  staring  at  the 
moon  that  was  lifting  itself  out  of  the  sea. 
Padruig  did  not  know  who  the  man  was. 
The  shepherd  had  few  wits,  poor  man! 
and  he  had  known,  or  remembered,  little 
about  the  story  of  Donnacha  Ban  Carmichael ; 
so  when  he  spoke  to  the  man,  it  was  as 
to  a  stranger.  The  man  looked  at  him  and 
said — 

" '  You  are  Padruig  M'Vurich,  the  shep- 
herd.' 

"  At  that  a  trembling  was  upon  old  Pad- 
ruig, who  had  the  wonder  that  this  stranger 
should  know  who  and  what  he  was. 

"  '  And  who  will  you  be,  and  forgive  the 
saying?  '  he  asked. 

"  '  Am  Faidh — the  Prophet,'  the  man  said. 

367 


The  Herdsman 

" '  And  what  prophet  will  you  be,  and 
what  is  your  prophecy  ?  '  asked  Padruig. 

"  '  I  am  here  because  I  wait  for  what  is 
to  be,  and  that  will  be  the  coming  of  the 
Woman  who  is  the  Daughter  of  God.' 

"  And  with  that  the  man  said  no  more,  an' 
the  old  shepherd  went  down  through  the 
gloaming,  an',  heavy  with  the  thoughts  that 
troubled  him,  followed  his  ewes  down  into 
Aonaig.  But  after  that  neither  he  nor  any 
other  saw  or  heard  tell  of  the  shadowy 
stranger;  so  that  all  upon  Rona  felt  sure  that 
Padruig  had  beheld  no  more  than  a  vision. 
There  were  some  who  thought  that  he  had 
seen  the  ghost  of  the  outlaw  Donnacha  Ban; 
an'  mayhap  one  or  two  who  wondered  if  the 
stranger  that  had  said  he  was  a  prophet  was 
not  Donnacha  Ban  himself,  with  a  madness 
come  upon  him;  but  at  last  these  sayings 
went  out  to  sea  upon  the  wind,  an'  men  for- 
got. But,  an'  it  was  months  and  months 
afterwards,  an'  three  days  before  his  own 
death,  old  Padruig  M'Vurich  was  sitting  in 
the  sunset  on  the  rocky  ledge  in  front  of  his 
brother's  croft,  where  then  he  was  staying, 
when  he  heard  a  strange  crying  of  seals.  He 
thought  little  of  that;  only,  when  he  looked 
closer,  he  saw,  in  the  hollow  of  the  wave  hard 
by  that  ledge,  a  drifting  body. 
368 


The  Herdsman 

"'Am  Faidh — Am  Faidh!'  he  cried;  'the 
Prophet,  the  Prophet !  ' 

"  At  that  his  brother  an'  his  brother's  wife 
ran  to  see ;  but  it  was  nothing  that  they  saw. 
*  It  would  be  a  seal,'  said  Pol  M'Vurich ;  but 
at  that  Padruig  had  shook  his  head,  an'  said 
no  for  sure,  he  had  seen  the  face  of  the  dead 
man,  an'  it  was  of  him  whom  he  had  met  on 
the  hillside,  an'  that  had  said  he  was  the 
Prophet  who  was  waiting  there  for  the  sec- 
ond coming  of  God. 

"  And  that  is  how  there  came  about  the 
echo  of  the  thought  that  Donnacha  Ban  had 
at  last,  after  his  madness,  gone  under  the 
green  wave  and  was  dead.  For  all  that,  in 
the  months  which  followed,  more  than  one 
man  said  he  had  seen  a  figure  high  up  on  the 
hill.  The  old  wisdom  says  that  when  God 
comes  again,  or  the  prophet  who  will  come 
before,  it  will  be  as  a  herdsman  on  a  lonely 
isle.  More  than  one  of  the  old  people  on 
Rona  and  Borosay  remembered  that  sgeul  out 
of  the  Seanachas  that  the  tale-tellers  knew. 
There  were  some  who  said  that  Donnacha 
Ban  had  never  been  drowned  at  all,  an'  that 
he  was  this  Prophet,  this  Herdsman.  Others 
would  not  have  that  saying  at  all,  but  believed 
that  the  wraith  was  indeed  Am  Buachaill  Ban, 
the    Fair-haired    Shepherd,  who    had    come 

369 


The  Herdsman 

again  to  redeem  the  people  out  of  their  sor- 
row. There  were  even  those  who  said  that 
the  Herdsman  who  haunted  Rona  was  no 
other  than  Kenneth  Carmichael  himself,  who 
had  not  died  but  had  had  the  mind-dark  there 
in  the  sea-caves  where  he  had  been  lost,  an' 
there  had  come  to  the  knowledge  of  secret 
things,  and  so  was  at  last  Am  Faidh 
Chriosd." 

A  great  weakness  came  upon  the  old 
woman  when  she  had  spoken  thus  far.  Ian 
feared  that  she  would  have  breath  for  no 
further  word ;  but  after  a  thin  gasping,  and  a 
listless  fluttering  of  weak  hands  upon  the 
coverlet,  whereon  her  trembling  fingers 
plucked  aimlessly  at  the  invisible  blossoms  of 
death,  she  opened  her  eyes  once  more,  and 
stared  in  a  dim  questioning  at  him  who  sat 
by  her  bedside. 

"  Tell  me,"  whispered  Ian,  "  tell  me.  Mar- 
sail,  what  thought  it  is  that  is  in  your  own 
mind?  " 

But  already  the  old  woman  had  begun  to 
wander. 

"For  sure,  for  sure,"  she  muttered,  "Am 
Faidh  .  .  .  Am  Faidh  .  .  .  an'  a  child  will 
be  born  .  .  .  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  an'  .  .  . 
that  will  be  the  voice  of  Domhuill,  my  hus- 

370 


The  Herdsman 

band,  I  am  hearing  ...  an'  dark  it  is,  an'  the 
tide  comin'  in  .  .  .  an' " 

Then,  sure,  the  tide  came  in,  and  if  in  that 
darkness  old  Marsail  Macrae  heard  any  voice 
at  all,  it  was  that  of  Domhuill  who  years 
agone  had  sunk  into  the  wild  seas  off  the 
head  of  Barra. 

An  hour  later  Alan  walked  slowly  under  the 
cloudy  night.  All  he-  had  heard  from  Ian 
came  back  to  him  with  a  strange  familiarity. 
Something  of  this,  at  least,  he  had  known  be- 
fore. Some  hints  of  this  mysterious  Herds- 
man had  reached  his  ears.  In  some  inexplica- 
ble way  his  real  or  imaginary  presence  there 
upon  Rona  seemed  a  pre-ordained  thing  for 
him. 

He  knew  that  the  wild  imaginings  of  the 
islanders  had  woven  the  legend  of  the 
Prophet,  or  of  his  mysterious  message,  out 
of  the  loom  of  the  deep  longing  whereon 
is  woven  that  larger  tapestry,  the  shadow- 
thridden  life  of  the  island  Gael.  Laughter 
and  tears,  ordinary  hopes  and  pleasures,  and 
even  joy  itself,  and  bright  gaiety,  and  the 
swift,  spontaneous  imaginations  of  susceptible 
natures — all  this,  of  course,  is  to  be  found 
with  the  island  Gael  as  with  his  fellows  else- 
where. But  every  here  and  there  are  some 
who  have  in  their  minds  the  inheritance  from 

37^ 


The  Herdsman 

the  dim  past  of  their  race,  and  are  oppressed 
as  no  other  people  are  oppressed  by  the  gloom 
of  a  strife  between  spiritual  emotion  and  ma- 
terial facts.  It  is  the  brains  of  dreamers  such 
as  these  which  clear  the  mental  life  of  the 
community ;  and  it  is  in  these  brains  are  the 
mysterious  looms  which  weave  the  tragic  and 
sorrowful  tapestries  of  Celtic  thought.  It 
were  a  madness  to  suppose  that  life  in  the  isles 
consists  of  nothing  but  sadness  or  melancholy. 
It  is  not  so,  or  need  not  be  so,  for  the  Gael  is  a 
creature  of  shadow  and  shine.  But  what- 
ever the  people  is,  the  brain  of  the  Gael  hears 
a  music  that  is  sadder  than  any  music  there 
is,  and  has  for  its  cloudy  sky  a  gloom  that 
shall  not  go ;  for  the  end  is  near,  and  upon 
the  westernmost  shores  of  these  remote  isles 
the  voice  of  Celtic  sorrow  may  be  heard  cry- 
ing, "  Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  mi  tuille":  "  I 
will  return,  I  will  return,  I  will  return  no 
more." 

Alan  knew  all  this  well ;  and  yet  he  too 
dreamed  his  dream — that,  even  yet,  there 
xnight  be  redemption  for  the  people.  He  did 
not  share  the  wild  hope  which  some  of  the 
older  islanders  held,  that  Christ  Himself  shall 
come  again  to  redeem  an  oppressed  race ;  but 
might  not  another  saviour  arise,  another  re- 
deeming spirit  come  into  the  world?    And  if 

372 


The  Herdsman 

so,  might  not  that  child  of  joy  be  born  out  of 
suffering  and  sorrow  and  crime ;  and  if  so, 
might  not  the  Herdsman  be  indeed  a  prophet, 
the  Prophet  of  the  Woman  in  whom  God 
should  come  anew  as  foretold? 

With  startled  eyes  he  crossed  the  thyme-set 
ledge  whereon  stood  Caisteal-Rhona.  Was  it, 
after  all,  a  message  he  had  received,  and  was 
that  which  had  appeared  to  him  in  that  lonely 
cavern  of  the  sea  but  a  phantom  of  his  own 
destiny?  Was  he  himself,  Alan  Carmichael, 
indeed  Am  Fdidh,  the  predestined  Prophet  of 
the  isles? 

V 

Ever  since  the  night  of  Marsail's  death.  Ian 
had  noticed  that  Alan  no  longer  doubted,  but 
that  in  some  way  a  special  message  had  come 
to  him,  a  special  revelation.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  had  himself  swung  further  into  his 
conviction  that  the  vision  he  had  seen  in  the 
cavern  was,  in  truth,  that  of  a  living  man. 
On  Borosay,  he  knew,  the  fishermen  believed 
that  the  aonaran  nan  creag,  the  recluse  of  the 
rocks,  as  commonly  they  spoke  of  him,  was 
no  other  than  Donnacha  Ban  Carmichael,  sur- 
vived there  through  these  many  years,  and 
long  since  mad  with  his  loneliness  and  be- 
cause of  the  burden  of  his  crime. 

Z7Z 


The  Herdsman 

But  by  this  time  the  islanders  had  come  to 
see  that  Alan  MacAilean  was  certainly  not 
Donnacha  Ban.  Even  the  startling  likeness 
no  longer  betrayed  them  in  this  way.  The 
ministers  and  the  priests  on  Berneray  and 
Barra  scoffed  at  the  whole  story,  and  every- 
where discouraged  the  idea  that  Donnacha 
Ban  could  still  be  among  the  living.  But  for 
the  common  belief  that  to  encounter  the 
Herdsman,  whether  the  lost  soul  of  Donnacha 
Ban  or  indeed  the  strange  phantom  of  the 
hills  of  which  the  old  legends  spoke,  was  to 
meet  inevitable  disaster,  the  islanders  might 
have  been  persuaded  to  make  such  a  search 
among  the  caves  of  Rona  as  would  almost 
certainly  have  revealed  the  presence  of  any 
who  dwelt  therein. 

But  as  summer  lapsed  into  autumn,  and  au- 
tumn itself  through  its  golden  silences  waned 
into  the  shadow  of  the  equinox,  a  strange, 
brooding  serenity  came  upon  Alan.  Ian  him- 
self now  doubted  his  own  vision  of  the  mys- 
terious Herdsman — if  he  indeed  existed  at 
all  except  in  the  imaginations  of  those  who 
spoke  of  him  either  as  the  Buachaill  Ban,  or 
as  the  aonaran  nan  creag.  If  a  real  man,  Ian 
believed  that  at  last  he  had  passed  away. 
None  saw  the  Herdsman  now ;  and  even  Mo- 
rag  MacNeill,  who  had  often  on  moonlight 

374 


The  Herdsman 

nights  been  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  voice 
chanting  among  the  upper  soHtudes,  admitted 
that  she  now  heard  nothing  unusual. 

St.  Martin's  summer  came  at  last,  and  with 
it  all  that  wonderful,  dreamlike  beauty  which 
bathes  the  isles  in  a  flood  of  golden  light,  and 
draws  over  sea  and  land  a  veil  of  deeper 
mystery. 

One  late  afternoon,  Ian,  returning  to  Cais- 
teal-Rhona  after  an  unexplained  absence  of 
several  hours,  found  Alan  sitting  at  a  table. 
Spread  before  him  were  the  sheets  of  one  of 
the  strange  old  Gaelic  tales  which  he  had  ar- 
dently begun  to  translate.  Alan  lifted  and 
slowly  read  the  page  or  paraphrase  which  he 
had  just  laid  down.  It  was  after  the  homelier 
Gaelic  of  the  Eachdaireachd  Challum  mhic 
Cruimein. 

"  And  when  that  king  had  come  to  the 
island,  he  lived  there  in  the  shadow  of  men's 
eyes;  for  none  saw  him  by  day  or  by  night, 
and  none  knew  whence  he  came  or  whither 
he  fared;  for  his  feet  were  shod  with  silence, 
and  his  way  with  dusk.  But  men  knew  that  he 
was  there,  and  all  feared  him.  Months,  even 
years,  tramped  one  on  the  heels  of  the  other, 
and  perhaps  the  king  gave  no  sign,  but  one  day 
he  would  give  a  sign ;  and  that  sign  was  a 
laughing  that  was  heard  somewhere,  upon  the 

375 


The  Herdsman 

lonely  hills,  or  on  the  lonely  wave,  or  in  the 
heart  of  him  who  heard.  And  whenever  the 
king  laughed,  he  who  heard  would  fare  ere 
long  from  his  fellows  to  join  that  king  in  the 
shadow.  But  sometimes  the  king  laughed 
only  because  of  vain  hopes  and  wild  imagin- 
ings, for  upon  these  he  lives  as  well  as  upon 
the  strange  savours  of  mortality." 

That  night  Alan  awakened  Ian  suddenly, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand  made  him  pro- 
mise to  go  with  him  on  the  morrow  to  the 
Teampull-Mara. 

In  vain  Ian  questioned  him  as  to  why  he 
asked  this  thing.  All  Alan  would  say  was 
that  he  must  go  there  once  again,  and  with 
him,  for  he  believed  that  a  spirit  out  of 
heaven  had  come  to  reveal  to  him  a  wonder. 
Distressed  by  what  he  knew  to  be  a  madness, 
and  fearful  that  it  might  prove  to  be  no  pass- 
ing fantasy,  Ian  would  fain  have  persuaded 
him  against  this  intention.  Even  as  he  spoke, 
however,  he  realised  that  it  might  be  better  to 
accede  to  his  wishes,  and,  above  all,  to  be 
there  with  him,  so  that  it  might  not  be  one 
only  who  heard  or  saw  the  expected  revela- 
tion. 

And  it  was  a  strange  faring  indeed,  that 
which  occurred  on  the  morrow.  At  noon, 
when  the  tide  was  an  hour  turned  in  the  ebb, 
376 


The  Herdsman 

they  sailed  westward  from  Caisteal-Rhona. 
It  was  in  silence  they  made  that  strange  jour- 
ney together ;  for,  while  Ian  steered,  Alan 
lay  down  in  the  hollow  of  the  boat,  with  his 
head  against  the  old  man's  knees,  and  slept, 
or  at  least  lay  still  with  his  eyes  closed. 

When  at  last  they  passed  the  headland  and 
entered  the  first  of  the  sea-arcades,  Alan 
rose  and  sat  beside  him.  Hauling  down  the 
now  useless  sail,  Ian  took  an  oar  and,  stand- 
ing at  the  prow,  urged  the  boat  inward  along 
the  narrow  corridor  which  led  to  the  huge 
sea-cave  of  the  Altar. 

In  the  deep  gloom — for  even  on  that  day  of 
golden  light  and  beauty  the  green  air  of  the 
sea-cave  was  heavy  with  shadow — there  was 
a  deathly  chill.  What  dull  light  there  was 
came  from  the  sheen  of  the  green  water  which 
lay  motionless  along  the  black  basaltic  ledges. 
When  at  last  the  base  of  the  Altar  was 
reached,  Ian  secured  the  boat  by  a  rope  passed 
around  a  projecting  spur,  and  then  seated 
himself  in  the  stern  beside  Alan. 

"  Tell  me,  Alan-a-ghaoil,  what  is  this  thing 
that  you  are  thinking  you  will  hear  or  see  ?  " 

Alan  looked  at  him  strangely  for  a  while, 
but,  though  his  lips  moved,  he  said  nothing. 

"  Tell  me,  my  heart,"  Ian  urged  again, 
"  who  is  it  you  expect  to  see  or  hear  ?  " 

377 


The  Herdsman 

"  Am  Buachaill  Ban,"  Alan  answered,  "  the 
Herdsman." 

For  a  moment  Ian  hesitated.  Then,  taking 
Alan's  hand  in  his  and  raising  it  to  his  lips, 
he  whispered  in  his  ear — 

"  There  is  no  Herdsman  upon  Rona.  If  a 
man  was  there  who  lived  solitary,  the  aonaran 
nan  creag  is  dead  long  since.  What  you  have 
seen  and  heard  has  been  a  preying  upon  you 
of  wild  thoughts.  Be  thinking  no  more  now 
of  this  vision," 

"  This  man,"  Alan  answered  quietly,  "  is 
not  Donnacha  Ban,  but  the  Prophet  of  whom 
the  people  speak.  He  himself  has  told  me  this 
thing.  Yesterday  I  was  here,  and  he  bade 
me  come  again.  He  spoke  out  of  the  shadow 
that  is  about  the  Altar,  though  I  saw  him  not. 
I  asked  him  if  he  were  Donnacha  Ban,  and 
he  said  '  No.'  I  asked  him  if  he  were  Am 
Faidh,  and  he  said  '  Yes.'  I  asked  him  if  he 
were  indeed  an  immortal  spirit  and  herald 
of  that  which  was  to  be,  and  he  said  '  Even 
so.'  " 

For  a  long  while  after  this  no  word  was 
spoken.  The  chill  of  that  remote  place  be- 
gan to  affect  Alan,  and  he  shivered  slightly  at 
times.  But  more  he  shivered  because  of  the 
silence,  and  because  that  he  who  had  pro- 
mised to  be  there  gave  no  sign.     Sure,  he 

378 


The  Herdsman 

thought,  it  could  not  be  all  a  dream ;  sure,  the 
Herdsman  would  come  again. 

Then  at  last,  turning  to  Ian,  he  said,  "  We 
must  come  on  the  morrow,  for  to-day  he  is 
not  here." 

"  I  will  do  what  you  ask,  Alan-mo-ghaol." 

But  of  a  sudden  Alan  stepped  on  the  black 
ledges  at  the  base  of  the  Altar,  and  slowly 
mounted  the  precipitous  rock. 

Ian  watched  him  till  he  became  a  shadow 
in  that  darkness.  His  heart  leaped  when 
suddenly  he  heard  a  cry  fall  out  of  the  gloom. 

"  Alan,  Alan !  "  he  cried,  and  a  great  fear 
was  upon  him  when  no  answer  came ;  but  at 
last  he  heard  him  clambering  slowly  down  the 
perilous  slope  of  that  obscure  place.  When  he 
reached  the  ledge  Alan  stood  still  regarding 
him. 

"Why  do  you  not  come  into  the  boat?" 
Ian  asked,  terrified  because  of  what  he  saw 
in  Alan's  eyes. 

Alan  looked  at  him  with  parted  lips,  his 
breath  coming  and  going  like  that  of  a  caged 
bird. 

"  What  is  it?  "  Ian  whispered. 

"  Ian,  when  I  reached  the  top  of  the  Altar, 
and  in  the  dim  light  that  was  there,  I  saw  the 
dead  body  of  a  man  lying  upon  the  rock.  His 
head  was  lain  back  so  that  the  gleam  from  a 

379 


The  Herdsman 

crevice  in  the  cliff  overhead  fell  upon  it.  The 
man  had  been  dead  many  hours.  He  is  a  man 
whose  hair  has  been  greyed  by  years  and  sor- 
row, but  the  man  is  he  who  is  of  my  blood ; 
he  whom  I  resemble  so  closely ;  he  that  the 
fishermen  call  the  hermit  of  the  rocks ;  he 
that  is  the  Herdsman." 

Ian  stared,  with  moving  lips :  then  in  a 
whisper  he  spoke — 

"  Would  you  be  for  following  a  herdsman 
who  could  lead  you  to  no  fold?  This  man  is 
dead,  Alan  mac  Alasdair;  and  it  is  well  that 
you  brought  me  here  to-day.  That  is  a  good 
thing,  and  for  sure  God  has  willed  it." 

"  It  is  not  a  man  that  is  dead.  It  is  my  soul 
that  lies  there.  It  is  dead.  God  called  me  to 
be  His  Prophet,  and  I  hid  in  dreams.  It  is 
the  end."  And  with  that,  and  death  staring 
out  of  his  eyes,  he  entered  the  boat  and  sat 
down  beside  Ian. 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

Slowly  Ian  oared  the  boat  across  the  sha- 
dowy gulf  of  the  cave,  along  the  narrow  pas- 
sage, and  into  the  pale  green  gloom  of  the 
outer  cavern,  wherein  the  sound  of  the  sea 
made  a  forlorn  requiem  in  his  ears. 

But  the  short  November  day  was  already 
passing  to  its  end.  All  the  sea  westward  was 
aflame  with  gold  and  crimson  light,  and  in 
380 


The  Herdsman 

the  great  dome  of  the  sky  a  wonderful  ra- 
diance lifted  above  the  paleness  of  the  clouds, 
whose  pinnacled  and  bastioned  heights  tow- 
ered in  the  south-west. 

A  faint  wind  blew  eastwardly.  Raising  the 
sail,  Ian  made  it  fast  and  then  sat  down  be- 
side Alan.  But  he,  rising,  moved  along  the 
boat  to  the  mast,  and  leaned  there  with  his 
face  against  the  setting  sun. 

Idly  they  drifted  onward.  Deep  silence  lay 
between  them ;  deep  silence  was  all  about 
them,  save  for  the  ceaseless,  inarticulate 
murmur  of  the  sea,  the  splash  of  low  waves 
against  the  rocks  of  Rona,  and  the  sigh  of 
the  surf  at  the  base  of  the  basalt  precipices. 

And  this  was  their  homeward  sailing  on 
that  day  of  revelation :  Alan,  with  his  back 
against  the  mast,  and  his  lifeless  face  irradia- 
ted by  the  light  of  the  setting  sun ;  Ian,  steer- 
ing, with  his  face  in  shadow. 


381 


Love  in  Shadow  has  two  sacred  ministers.  Oblivion 
and  Faith,  one  to  heal,  the  other  to  renovate  and  up- 
build.—Y.  M. 


FRAGMENTS   FROM    "GREEN    FIRE" 
I 

THE   BIRDS   OF   ANGUS   OG 

"  Then,  in  the  violet  forest  all  a-burgeon,  Eucharis 
said  to  me:  It  is  Spring." — Arthur  Rembaud. 

After  the  dim  purple  bloom  of  a  sus- 
pended Spring,  a  green  rhythm  ran  from  larch 
to  thorn,  from  lime  to  sycamore :  spread  from 
meadow  to  meadow,  from  copse  to  copse, 
from  hedgerow  to  hedgerow.  The  black- 
thorn had  already  snowed  upon  the  nettle- 
garths.  In  the  obvious  nests,  among  the  bare 
boughs  of  ash  and  beech,  the  eggs  of  the 
blackbird  were  blue-green  as  the  sky  that 
March  had  bequeathed  to  April.  For  days 
past,  when  the  breath  of  the  Equinox  had 
surged  out  of  the  west,  the  missel-thrushes 
had  bugled  from  the  wind-swayed  topmost 
branches  of  the  tallest  elms.  Everywhere  the 
green  rhythm  ran. 

In  every  leaf  that  had  uncurled  there  was 
a  delicate  bloom,  that  which  is  upon  all  things 
in  the  first  hours  of  life.  The  spires  of  the 
grass   were   washed   in  a  green,  dewy  light. 

383 


Fragments 

Out  of  the  brown  earth  a  myriad  living  things 
thrust  tiny  green  shafts,  arrow-heads,  bulbs, 
spheres,  clusters.  Along  the  pregnant  soil 
keener  ears  than  ours  would  have  heard  the 
stir  of  new  life,  the  innumerous  whisper  of 
the  bursting  seed:  and,  in  the  wind  itself, 
shepherding  the  shadow-chased  sunbeams, 
the  voice  of  that  vernal  gladness  which  has 
been  man's  clarion  since  Time  began.  Day 
by  day  the  wind-wings  lifted  a  more  multi- 
tudinous whisper  from  the  woodlands.  The 
deep  hyperborean  note,  from  the  invisible 
ocean  of  air,  was  still  audible :  within  the 
concourse  of  bare  boughs  which  wrought 
against  it,  that  surging  voice  could  not  but 
have  an  echo  of  its  wintry  roar.  In  the  sun- 
havens,  however,  along  the  southerly  copses, 
in  daisied  garths  of  orchard-trees,  amid  the 
flowering  currant  and  guelder  and  lilac  bushes 
in  quiet  places  where  the  hives  were  all 
a-murmur,  the  wind  already  sang  its  lilt  of 
Spring.  From  dawn  till  noon,  from  an  hour 
before  sundown  till  the  breaking  foam  along 
the  wild-cherry  flushed  fugitively  because  of 
the  crimson  glow  out  of  the  west,  there  was 
a  ceaseless  chittering  of  birds.  The  starlings 
and  the  sparrows  enjoyed  the  commune  of 
the  homestead ;  the  larks  and  fieldfares  and 
green  and  yellow  linnets  congregated  in  the 

384 


Fragments 

meadows,  where,  too,  the  wild  bee  already 
roved.  Among  the  brown  ridgy  fallows  there 
was  a  constant  flutter  of  black,  white-gleam- 
ing, and  silver-grey  wings,  where  the  stalk- 
ing rooks,  the  jerking  peewits,  and  the  wary, 
uncertain  gulls  from  the  neighbouring  sea 
feasted  tirelessly  from  the  teeming  earth. 
Often,  too,  the  wind-hover,  that  harbinger  of 
the  season  of  the  young  broods,  quivered  his 
curved  wings  in  his  arrested  flight,  while  his 
lance-like  gaze  penetrated  the  whins  beneath 
which  a  new-born  rabbit  crawled,  or  dis- 
cerned in  the  tangle  of  a  grassy  tuft  the 
brown  watchful  eyes  of  a  nesting  quail.  In 
the  remoter  woodlands  the  three  foresters  of 
April  could  be  heard ;  the  woodpecker  tapping 
on  the  gnarled  boles  of  the  oaks,  the  wild  dove 
calHng  in  low  crooning  monotones  to  his  silent 
mate,  the  cuckoo  tolling  his  infrequent  peals 
from  skiey  belfries  built  of  sun  and  mist. 

In  the  fields,  where  the  thorns  were  green 
as  rivulets  of  melted  snow  and  the  grass  had 
the  bloom  of  emerald,  and  the  leaves  of 
docken,  clover,  cinquefoil,  sorrel,  and  a  thou- 
sand plants  and  flowers,  were  wave-green, 
the  ewes  lay,  idly  watching  with  their  lumin- 
ous amber  eyes  the  frisking  and  leaping 
of  the  close-curled,  tuft-tailed,  woolly-legged 
lambs.     In  corners  of  the  hedgerows,  and  in 

385 


Fragments 

hollows  in  the  rolling  meadows,  the  primrose, 
the  celandine,  the  buttercup,  the  dandelion, 
and  the  daffodil  spilled  little  eddies  of 
the  sunflood  which  overbrimmed  them  with 
light.  All  day  long  the  rapture  of  the  larks 
filled  the  blue  air  with  vanishing  spirals  of 
music,  swift  and  passionate  in  the  ascent, 
repetitive  and  less  piercing  in  the  narrowing 
downward  gyres.  From  every  whin  the  poign- 
ant monotonous  note  of  the  yellow  ham- 
mer re-echoed.  Each  pastoral  hedge  was 
alive  with  robins,  chaffinches,  and  the  dusky 
shadows  of  the  wild  mice  darting  here  and 
there  among  the  greening  boughs. 

Whenever  this  green  fire  is  come  upon  the 
earth,  the  swift  contagion  spreads  to  the  hu- 
man heart.  What  the  seedlings  feel  in  the 
brown  mould,  what  the  sap  feels  in  every 
creature  from  the  newt  in  the  pool  to  the 
nesting  bird,  so  feels  the  strange  remember- 
ing ichor  that  runs  its  red  tides  through 
human  hearts  and  brains.  Spring  has  its  sub- 
tler magic  for  us,  because  of  the  dim  mys- 
teries of  unremembering  remembrance  and  of 
the  vague  radiances  of  hope.  Something  in 
us  sings  an  ascendant  song,  and  we  expect  we 
know  not  what:  something  in  us  sings  a  de- 
crescent song,  and  we  realise  vaguely  the  stir- 
ring of  immemorial  memories. 

386 


Fragments 

There  is  none  who  will  admit  that  Spring 
is  fairer  elsewhere  than  in  his  own  land.  But 
there  are  regions  where  the  season  is  so 
hauntingly  beautiful  that  it  would  seem  as 
though  Angus  Og  knew  them  for  his  chosen 
resting-places  in  his  green  journey. 

Angus  Og,  Angus  MacGreine,  Angus  the 
Ever  Youthful,  the  Son  of  the  Sun,  a  fair 
god  he  indeed,  golden-haired  and  wonderful 
as  Apollo  Chrusokumos.  Some  say  that  he  is 
Love:  some,  that  he  is  Spring:  some,  even, 
that  in  him  Thanatos,  the  Hellenic  Celt  that 
was  his  far-ofif  kin,  is  reincarnate.  But  why 
seek  riddles  in  flowing  water?  It  may  well 
be  that  Angus  Og  is  Love,  and  Spring,  and 
Death.  The  elemental  gods  are  ever  triune : 
and  in  the  human  heart,  in  whose  lost  Eden 
an  ancient  tree  of  knowledge  grows,  where- 
from  the  mind  has  not  yet  gathered  more  than 
a  few  windfalls,  it  is  surely  sooth  that  Death 
and  Love  are  oftentimes  one  and  the  same, 
and  that  they  love  to  come  to  us  in  the  apparel 
of  Spring. 

Sure,  indeed,  Angus  Og  is  a  name  above 
all  sweet  to  lovers,  for  is  he  not  the  god — 
the  fair  Youth  of  the  Tuatha-de-Danann,  the 
Ancient  People,  with  us  still,  though  for  ages 
seen  of  us  no  more — from  the  meeting  of 
whose  lips   are  born  white  birds,   which  fly 

387 


Fragments 

abroad  and  nest  in  lovers'  hearts  till  the  mo- 
ment come  when,  on  the  yearning  lips  of  love, 
their  invisible  wings  shall  become  kisses 
again  ? 

Then,  too,  there  is  the  old  legend  that  An- 
gus goes  to  and  fro  upon  the  world,  a  weaver 
of  rainbows.  He  follows  the  Spring,  or  is  its 
herald.  Often  his  rainbows  are  seen  in  the 
heavens :  often  in  the  rapt  gaze  of  love.  We 
have  all  perceived  them  in  the  eyes  of  chil- 
dren, and  some  of  us  have  discerned  them  in 
the  hearts  of  sorrowful  women,  and  in  the 
dim  brains  of  the  old.  Ah,  for  sure,  if  An- 
gus Og  be  the  lovely  Weaver  of  Hope,  he  is 
deathless  comrade  of  the  Spring,  and  we  may 
well  pray  to  him  to  let  his  green  fire  move  in 
our  veins :  whether  he  be  but  the  Eternal 
Youth  of  the  World,  or  be  also  Love,  whose 
soul  is  youth;  or  even  though  he  be  like- 
wise Death  himself,  Death  to  whom  Love  was 
wedded  long,  long  ago. 


388 


Alan  was  a  poet,  and  to  dream  was  his 
birthright.  .  .  .  He  was  ever  occupied  by 
that  wonderful  past  of  his  race  which  was  to 
him  a  Hving  reahty.  It  was  perhaps  because 
he  so  keenly  perceived  the  romance  of  the 
present — the  romance  of  the  general  hour,  of 
the  individual  moment — that  he  turned  so  in- 
satiably to  the  past  with  its  deathless  charm, 
its  haunting  appeal.  .  .  .  His  mind  was  as 
irresistibly  drawn  to  the  Celtic  world  of  the 
past  as  the  swallow  to  the  sun-way.  In  a 
word  he  was  not  only  a  poet  but  a  Celtic  poet ; 
and  not  only  a  Celtic  poet  but  a  dreamer 
of  the  Celtic  dream.  This  was  perhaps  be- 
cause of  the  double  strain  in  his  veins. 
Doubtless,  too,  it  was  continuously  enhanced 
by  his  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Celtic  lan- 
guages, that  of  the  Breton  and  that  of  the 
Gael.  It  is  language  that  is  the  surest  sti- 
mulus to  the  remembering  nerves.     We  have 

389 


Fragments 

a  memory  within  memory  as  layers  of  skin 
underlie  the  epidermis.  With  most  of  us 
this  anterior  remembrance  remains  dormant 
throughout  life:  but  to  some  are  given  swift 
ancestral  recollections.  Alan  was  one  of 
these. 

With  this  double  key  Alan  unlocked  many 
doors.  In  his  brain  ran  ever  that  Ossianic 
tide  which  has  borne  so  many  marvellous 
argosies  through  the  troubled  waters  of  the 
modern  mind. 

Old  ballad  of  his  nature  isles,  with  their 
haunting  Gaelic  rhythm  of  idioms,  their  fre- 
quent reminiscence  of  Norse  viking  and  the 
Danish  summer-sailor.  He  had  lived  with 
his  hero  Cuchullin  from  the  days  when  the 
boy  shewed  his  royal  blood  at  Emain-Macha 
till  that  sad  hour  when  his  madness  came 
upon  him  and  he  died.  He  had  fared  forth 
with  many  a  Lifting  of  the  Sunbeam,  and  had 
followed  Oisin  step  by  step  on  that  last  mel- 
ancholy journey  when  Maloma  led  the  blind 
old  man  along  the  lonely  shores  of  Arran. 
He  had  watched  the  crann-tara  flare  from 
glen  to  glen,  and  at  the  bidding  of  that  fiery 
cross  he  had  seen  the  whirling  of  the  swords, 
the  dusky  flight  of  arrow-rain,  and  from  the 
isles,  the  leaping  forth  of  the  war  hirlinns  to 
meet  the  Viking   galleys.     How   often,   too, 

390 


Fragments 

he  had  followed  trial  of  the  nine  Hostages 
and  seen  the  Irish  Charlemagne  ride  victor 
through  Saxon  London,  or  across  the  Nor- 
man plains  or  with  onward  sword  direct  his 
army  against  the  white  walls  of  the  Alps! 
...  It  was  thus  this  marvellous  life  of  old 
which  wrought  upon  Alan's  life  as  by  a  spell. 
Often  he  recalled  the  words  of  a  Gaelic  Scan 
he  had  heard  Yann  croon  in  his  soft  monot- 
onous voice, — words  which  made  a  light 
shoreward  eddy  of  the  present  and  were 
solemn  with  the  deep  sea-sound  of  the  past, 
that  is  with  us  even  as  we  speak.  .  .  . 

Truly  his  soul  must  have  lived  a  thousand 
years  ago.  In  him,  at  least,  the  old  Celtic 
brain  was  reborn  with  a  vivid  intensity  which 
none  guessed,  for  Alan  himself  only  vaguely 
surmised  the  extent  and  depth  of  this  obses- 
sion. In  heart  and  brain  the  old  world  lived 
anew.  Himself  a  poet,  all  that  was  fair  and 
tragically  beautiful  was  forever  undergoing 
in  his  mind  a  marvellous  transformation — a 
magical  resurrection  rather,  wherein  what 
was  remote  and  bygone,  and  crowned  with 
oblivious  dust,  became  alive  again  with  in- 
tense and  beautiful  life.  ,  .  . 

Deep  passion  instinctively  moves  toward 
the  shadow  rather  than  toward  the   golden 

391 


Fragments 

noons  of  light.  Passion  hears  what  love  at 
most  dreams  of;  passion  sees  what  love  may- 
hap dimly  discerns  in  a  glass  darkly.  A  mil- 
lion of  our  fellows  are  "  in  love  "  at  any  or 
every  moment:  and  for  these  the  shadowy 
way  is  intolerable.  But  for  the  few,  in  whom 
love  is,  the  eyes  are  circumspect  against  the 
dark  hour  which  comes  when  heart  and 
brain  and  blood  are  aflame  with  the  para- 
mount ecstasy  of  love.  .  .  . 

Oh,  flame  that  burns  where  fires  of  home 
are  lit!  and  oh,  flame  that  burns  in  the  heart 
to  whom  life  has  not  said,  Awake!  and  oh, 
flame  that  smoulders  from  death  to  life,  in 
the  dumb  lives  of  those  to  whom  the  primrose 
way  is  closed!  Everywhere  the  burning  of 
the  burning,  the  flame  of  flame,  pain  and  the 
shadow  of  pain,  joy  and  the  wrapt  breath  of 
joy,  flame  of  the  flame  that,  burning,  destroy- 
eth  not,  till  the  flame  is  no  more!  .  .  , 

It  is  said  of  an  ancient  poet  of  the  Druid 
days  that  he  had  power  to  see  the  lines  of  the 
living,  and  these  as  though  they  were  phan- 
toms, separate  from  the  body.  Was  there 
not  a  young  king  of  Albainn  who,  in  a  peril- 
ous hour,  discovered  this  secret  of  old  time, 
and  knew  how  a  life  may  be  hidden  away  from 
the  body  so  that  none  may  know  of  it,  save  the 

392 


Fragments 

wind  that  whispers  all  things,  and  the  tides  of 
day  and  night  that  hear  all  things  upon  their 
dark  flood?  .  .  . 

The  fragrance  of  the  forest  intoxicated 
him.  Spring  was  come  indeed.  The  wild 
storm  had  ruined  nothing,  for  at  its  fiercest  it 
had  swept  overhead.  Everywhere  the  green 
fire  of  Spring  would  be  litten  anew.  A  green 
flame  would  pass  from  meadow  to  hedgerow, 
from  hedgerow  to  the  tangled  thickets  of 
bramble  and  dogrose,  from  the  underwoods  to 
the  inmost  forest  glades. 

Everywhere  song  would  be  to  the  birds, 
everywhere  young  life  would  pulse,  every- 
where the  rhythm  of  a  new  rapture  would 
run  rejoicing.  The  Miracle  of  Spring  would 
be  accomplished  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  of 
all  birds  and  beasts,  of  all  green  life.  Each, 
in  its  kind  would  have  a  swifter  throb  in  the 
red  blood  of  the  vivid  sap.  .  .  . 

She  was  his  Magic.  The  light  of  their 
love  was  upon  everything.  Deeply  as  he 
loved  beauty  he  had  learned  to  love  it  far 
more  keenly  and  understandingly  because  of 
her.  He  saw  now  through  the  accidental 
and  everywhere  discerned  the  Eternal  Beauty, 
the  echoes  of  whose  wandering  are  in  every 
heart  and  brain  though  few  discern  the  white 
vision  or  hear  the  haunting  voice.  .  ,  .  Thus  it 

393 


Fragments 

was  she  had  for  him  this  immutable  attrac- 
tion which  a  few  women  have  for  a  few  men; 
an  appeal,  a  charm,  that  atmosphere  of  ro- 
mance, that  air  of  ideal  beauty,  wherein  lies 
the  secret  of  all  passionate  art. 

The  world  without  wonder,  the  world  with- 
out mystery!  That  indeed  is  the  rainbow 
without  colour,  the  sunrise  without  living 
gold,  the  moon  void  of  light.  .  .  . 

In  deep  love  there  is  no  height  nor  depth 
between  two  hearts,  no  height  nor  depth  nor 
length  nor  breadth.  There  is  simply  love. 
What  if  both  at  times  were  wrought  too 
deeply  by  this  beautiful  dream?  What  if  the 
inner  life  triumphed  now  and  then,  and  each 
forgot  the  deepest  instinct  of  life  that  here 
the  body  is  overlord,  and  the  soul  beget  a 
divine  consort? 

There  are  three  races  of  man.  There  is 
the  myriad  race  which  loses  all  through  (not 
bestiality  for  the  brute  world  is  clean  and 
sane)  perverted  animalism;  and  there  is  a 
myriad  race  which  denounces  humanity,  and 
pins  all  its  faith  and  joy  to  a  life  the  very  con- 
ditions of  whose  existence  are  incompatible 
with  the  law  to  which  we  are  subject — the 
sole  law,  the  law  of  nature. 

Then  there  is  that  small  untoward  clan, 
which    knows    the   divine   call   of   the    spirit 

394 


Fragments 

through  the  brain,  and  the  secret  whisper  of 
the  soul  in  one  heart,  and  forever  perceives 
the  veil  of  mystery  and  the  rainbows  of  hope 
upon  our  human  horizons,  which  hears  and 
sees,  and  yet  turns  wisely,  meanwhile,  to  the 
life  of  the  green  earth,  of  which  we  are  part, 
to  the  common  kindred  of  living  things  with 
which  we  are  one — is  content,  in  a  word,  to 
live  because  of  the  dream  that  makes  living 
so  mysteriously  sweet  and  poignant;  and  to 
dream  because  of  the  commanding  immediacy 
of  Hfe.  .  .  . 

What  are  dreams  but  the  dust  of  wayfaring 
thoughts?  Or  whence  are  they,  and  what  air 
is  upon  their  shadowy  wings?  Do  they  come 
out  of  the  twilight  of  man's  mind:  are  they 
ghosts  of  exiles  from  vanished  palaces  of  the 
brain:  or  are  they  heralds  with  proclamations 
of  hidden  tidings  for  the  soul  that  dreams  ? 


395 


To  live  in  Beauty  is  to  sunt  up  in  four  words  all 
the  spiritual  aspiration  of  the  soul  of  man. — F.  M. 


II 


THE   BEAUTY   OF   THE    WORLD 

"  The  Souls  of  the  Living  are  the  Beauty  of  the 
World." — Bacon. 

For  out  of  his  thoughts  about  Annaik 
and  Ynys  arose  a  fuller,  a  deeper  conception 
of  womanhood.  How  well  he  remembered 
a  legend  that  Ynys  had  once  told  him :  a 
legend  of  a  fair  spirit  which  goes  to  and  fro 
upon  the  world,  the  Weaver  of  Tears,  He 
loves  the  pathways  of  sorrow.  His  voice  iS 
low  and  sweet,  with  a  sound  like  the  bubbling 
of  waters  in  that  fount  whence  the  rainbows 
rise.  His  eyes  are  in  quiet  places,  and  in  the 
dumb  pain  of  animals  as  in  the  agony  of  the 
human  brain :  but  most  he  is  found,  oftenest 
are  the  dewy  traces  of  his  feet,  in  the  heart 
of  woman. 

Tears,  tears:  they  are  not  the  saltest  tears 
which  are  on  the  lids  of  those  who  weep. 
Fierce  tears  there  are,  hot  founts  of  pain  in 
the  mind  of  many  a  man,  that  are  never  shed, 
but  slowly  crystallise  in  furrows  on  brow  and 
face,  and  in  deep  weariness  in  the  eyes :  fierce 

397 


fragments 

tears,  unquenchable,  in  the  heart  of  many  a 
woman,  whose  brave  eyes  look  fearlessly  at 
life,  whose  dauntless  courage  goes  forth 
daily  to  die  but  never  to  be  vanquished. 

In  truth  the  Weaver  of  Tears  abides  in  the 
heart  of  woman.  O  Mother  of  Pity,  of  Love, 
of  deep  Compassion:  with  thee  it  is  to  yearn 
for  ever  for  the  ideal  human,  to  bring  the 
spiritual  love  into  fusion  with  human  desire, 
endlessly  to  strive,  endlessly  to  fail,  always 
to  hope  in  spite  of  disillusion,  to  love  un- 
swervingly against  all  baffling  and  misunder- 
standing, and  even  forgetfulness !  O  Woman, 
whose  eyes  are  always  stretched  out  to  her 
erring  children,  whose  heart  is  big  enough  to 
cover  all  the  little  children  in  the  world,  and 
suflfer  with  their  sufferings,  and  joy  with  their 
joys:  Woman,  whose  other  divine  names  are 
Strength  and  Patience,  who  is  no  girl,  no 
virgin,  because  she  has  drunk  too  deeply  the 
fount  of  Life  to  be  very  young  or  very  joy- 
ful. Upon  her  lips  is  the  shadowy  kiss  of 
death:  in  her  eyes  is  the  shadow  of  birth. 
She  is  the  veiled  interpreter  of  the  two  mys- 
teries. Yet  what  joyousness  like  hers,  when 
she  wills:  because  of  her  unwavering  hope, 
her  inexhaustible  fount  of  love? 

So  it  was  that  just  as  Alan  had  long  recog- 
nised as  a  deep  truth,  how  the  spiritual  nature 

398 


Fragments 

of  man  has  been  revealed  to  humanity  in  many 
divine  incarnations,  so  he  had  come  to  believe 
that  the  spiritual  nature  of  woman  has  been 
revealed  in  the  many  Marys,  sisters  of  the 
Beloved,  who  have  had  the  keys  of  the  soul 
and  the  heart  in  their  unconscious  keeping. 
In  this  exquisite  truth  he  knew  a  fresh 
and  vivid  hope.  ...  A  Woman-Saviour,  who 
would  come  near  to  all  of  us,  because  in  her 
heart  would  be  the  blind  tears  of  the  child, 
the  bitter  tears  of  the  man,  and  the  patient 
tears  of  the  woman :  who  would  be  the  Com- 
passionate One,  with  no  end  or  aim  but  com- 
passion— with  no  doctrine  to  teach,  no  way  to 
show,  but  only  deep,  wonderful,  beautiful,  in- 
alienable, unquenchable  compassion. 

For  in  truth  there  is  the  divine  eternal  fem- 
inine counterpart  to  the  divine  eternal  male, 
and  both  are  needed  to  explain  the  mystery 
of  the  dual  spirit  within  us — the  mystery  of 
the  two  in  one,  so  infinitely  stranger  and  more 
wonderful  than  that  triune  life  which  the  blind 
leaders  of  the  blind  have  made  a  rock  of  stum- 
bling and  offence  out  of  a  truth  clear  and  ob- 
vious as  noon. 

We  speak  of  Mother  Nature,  but  we 
do  not  discern  the  living  truth  behind  our 
words.  How  few  of  us  have  the  vision  of  this 
great  brooding  Mother,  whose  garment  is  the 

399 


Fragments 

earth  and  sea,  whose  head  is  pillowed  among 
the  stars:  she,  who,  with  death  and  sleep  as 
her  familiar  shapes,  soothes  and  rests  all  the 
weariness  of  the  world,  from  the  waning  leaf 
to  the  beating  pulse,  from  the  brief  span  of 
a  human  heart  to  the  furrowing  of  granite 
brows  by  the  uninterrupted  sun,  the  hounds 
of  rain  and  wind,  and  the  untrammelled  airs 
of  heaven. 

Not  cruel,  relentless,  impotently  anarchic, 
chaotically  potent,  this  Mater  Genetrix.  We 
see  her  thus,  who  are  flying  threads  in  the 
loom  she  weaves.  But  she  is  patient,  abid- 
ing, certain,  inviolate,  and  silent  ever.  It  is 
only  when  we  come  to  this  vision  of  her  whom 
we  call  Isis,  or  Hera,  or  Orchil,  or  one  of  a 
hundred  other  names,  our  unknown  Earth- 
Mother,  that  men  and  women  will  know  each 
other  aright,  and  go  hand  in  hand  along  the 
road  of  life  without  striving  to  crush,  to  sub- 
due, to  usurp,  to  retaliate,  to  separate. 

Ah,  fair  vision  of  humanity  to  come:  man 
and  woman  side  by  side,  sweet,  serene,  true, 
simple,  natural,  fulfilling  earth's  and  heaven's 
behests,  unashamed,  unsophisticated,  unaf- 
fected, each  to  each  and  for  each,  children  of 
one  mother,  inheritors  of  a  like  destiny,  and, 
at  the  last,  artificers  of  an  equal  fate. 

Pondering  thus,  Alan  rose,  and  looked  out 
400 


Fragments 

into  the  night.  In  that  great  stillness,  where- 
in the  moonlight  lay  like  the  visible  fragrance 
of  the  earth,  he  gazed  long  and  intently.  How 
shadowy,  now,  were  those  lives  that  had  so 
lately  palpitated  in  this  very  place :  how 
strange  their  silence,  their  incommunicable 
knowledge,  their  fathomless  peace ! 

Was  it  all  lost  .  .  .  the  long  endurance  of 
pain,  the  pangs  of  sorrow?  If  so,  what  was 
the  lesson  of  life?  Surely  to  live  with  sweet 
serenity  and  gladness,  content  against  the  in- 
evitable hour.  There  is  solace  of  a  kind  in 
the  idea  of  a  common  end,  of  that  terrible 
processional  march  of  life  wherein  the  myr- 
iad is  momentary,  and  the  immeasurable  is 
but  a  passing  shadow.  But,  alas,  it  is  only 
solace  of  a  kind :  for  what  heart  that  has 
beat  to  the  pulse  of  love  can  relinquish  the 
sweet  dream  of  life,  and  what  coronal  can 
philosophy  put  upon  the  brows  of  youth  in 
place  of  eternity? 

No,  no :  of  this  he  felt  sure.  In  the  Beauty 
of  the  World  lies  the  ultimate  redemption  of 
our  mortality.  When  we  shall  become  at  one 
with  nature  in  a  sense  profounder  even  than 
the  poetic  imaginings  of  most  of  us,  we  shall 
understand  what  now  we  fail  to  discern.  The 
arrogance  of  those  who  would  have  the  stars 
as  candles  for  our  night,  and  the  universe  as 
401 


Fragments 

a  pleasance  for  our  thought,  will  be  as  im- 
possible as  their  bHnd  fatuity  who  say  we  are 
of  dust,  briefly  vitalised,  that  shall  be  dust 
again,  with  no  fragrance  saved  from  the  rude 
bankruptcy  of  life,  no  beauty  raised  up 
against  the  sun  to  bloom  anew. 

It  is  no  idle  dream,  this :  no  idle  dream  that 
we  are  a  perishing  clan  among  the  sons  of 
God,  because  of  this  slow  waning  of  our 
joy,  of  our  passionate  delight,  in  the  Beauty 
of  the  World.  We  have  been  unable  to  look 
out  upon  the  shining  of  our  star,  for  the 
vision  overcomes  us ;  and  we  have  used  veils 
which  we  call  "  scenery,"  "  picturesqueness," 
and  the  like — poor,  barren  words  that  are  so 
voiceless  and  remote  before  the  rustle  of 
leaves  and  the  lap  of  water,  before  the  an- 
cient music  of  the  wind,  and  all  the  sovran 
eloquence  of  the  tides  of  light.  But  a  day 
may  come — nay,  shall  surely  come — when  in- 
deed the  poor  and  the  humble  shall  inherit  the 
earth :  they  who  have  not  made  a  league  with 
temporal  evils  and  out  of  whose  heart  shall 
arise  the  deep  longing,  that  shall  become  uni- 
versal, of  the  renewal  of  youth, 

.  .  .  Often,  too,   alone   in  his  observatory, 
where  he    was   wont   to   spend   much   of   his 
time,  Alan  knew  that  strange  nostalgia  of  the 
402 


Fragments 

mind  for  impossible  things.  Then,  wrought 
for  a  while  from  his  vision  of  green  life,  and 
flamed  by  another  green  fire  than  that  born 
of  the  earth,  he  dreamed  his  dream.  With 
him,  the  peopled  solitude  of  night  was  a  con- 
course of  confirming  voices.  He  did  not 
dread  the  silence  of  the  stars,  the  cold  re- 
moteness of  the  stellar  fire. 

In  that  other  watch-tower  in  Paris,  where 
he  had  spent  the  best  hours  of  his  youth,  he 
had  loved  that  nightly  watch  of  the  constella- 
tions. Now,  as  then,  in  the  pulse  of  the  planets 
he  found  assurances  which  faith  had  not 
given  him.  In  the  vast  majestic  order  of 
that  nocturnal  march,  that  diurnal  retreat,  he 
had  learned  the  law  of  the  whirling  leaf  and 
the  falling  star,  of  the  slow  seon-delayed 
comet  and  of  the  slower  wane  of  solar  fires. 
Looking  with  visionary  eyes  into  that  con- 
gregation of  stars,  he  realised,  not  the  little- 
ness of  the  human  dream,  but  its  divine  im- 
pulsion. It  was  only  when,  after  long  vigils 
into  the  quietudes  of  night,  he  turned  his 
gaze  from  the  palaces  of  the  unknown,  and 
thought  of  the  baffled  fretful  swarming  in  the 
cities  of  men,  that  his  soul  rose  in  revolt 
against  the  sublime  inaptitude  of  man's  spir- 
itual leaguer  against  destiny. 

Destiny — "  An   Dan  " — it  was  a  word   fa- 

403 


Fragments 

miliar  to  him  since  childhood,  when  first  he 
had  heard  it  on  the  lips  of  old  Ian  Macdon- 
ald.  And  once,  on  the  eve  of  the  Feast  of 
Paschal,  when  Alan  had  asked  Daniel  Dare 
what  was  the  word  which  the  stars  spelled 
from  zenith  to  nadir,  the  astronomer  had 
turned  and  answered  simply,  "  C'est  le  Destin." 
But  Alan  was  of  the  few  to  whom  this 
talismanic  word  opens  lofty  perspectives,  even 
while  it  obscures  those  paltry  vistas  which  we 
deem  unending  and  dignify  with  vain  hopes 
and  void  immortalities. 


404 


A  DREAM 

To 
G.  R.  S.  MEAD 


Our  thought,  our  consciousness,  is  but  the  scintilla- 
tion of  a  wave:  below  us  is  a  moving  shadow,  our  brief 
forecast  and  receding  way;  beneath  the  shadow  are 
depths  sinking  into  depths,  and  then  the  unfathomable 
unknown. — F.  M, 


A  Dream 


I  was  on  a  vast,  an  illimitable  plain,  where 
the  dark  blue  horizons  were  sharp  as  the  edges 
of  hills.  It  was  the  world,  but  there  was  noth- 
ing in  the  world.  There  was  not  a  blade  of 
grass  nor  the  hum  of  an  insect,  nor  the  shadow 
of  a  bird's  wing.  The  mountains  had  sunk  like 
waves  in  the  sea  when  there  is  no  wind ;  the 
barren  hills  had  become  dust.  Forests  had 
become  the  fallen  leaf;  and  the  leaf  had 
passed.  I  was  aware  of  one  who  stood  be- 
side me,  though  that  knowledge  was  of  the 
spirit  only;  and  my  eyes  were  filled  with  the 
same  nothingness  as  I  beheld  above  and  be- 
neath and  beyond.  I  would  have  thought  I 
was  in  the  last  empty  glens  of  Death,  were  it 
not  for  a  strange  and  terrible  sound  that  I 
took  to  be  the  voice  of  the  wind  coming  out 
of  nothing,  travelling  over  nothingness  and 
moving  onward  into  nothing. 

"  There  is  only  the  wind,"  I  said  to  myself 
in  a  whisper. 

Then  the  voice  of  the  dark  Power  beside 
me,  whom  in  my  heart  I  knew  to  be  Dalua,  the 
407 


A  Dream 

Master  of  Illusions,  said :  "  Verily,  this  is 
your  last  illusion." 

I  answered :  "  It  is  the  wind." 

And  the  voice  answered :  "  That  is  not  the 
wind  that  you  hear,  for  the  wind  is  dead.  It 
is  the  empty,  hollow  echo  of  my  laughter." 

Then,  suddenly,  he  who  was  beside  me 
lifted  up  a  small  stone,  smooth  as  a  pebble 
of  the  sea.  It  was  grey  and  flat,  and  yet  to 
me  had  a  terrible  beauty  because  it  was  the 
last  vestige  of  the  life  of  the  world. 

The  Presence  beside  me  lifted  up  the  stone 
and  said :  "  It  is  the  end." 

And  the  horizons  of  the  world  came  in 
upon  me  like  a  rippling  shadow.  And  I 
leaned  over  darkness  and  saw  whirling  stars. 
These  were  gathered  up  like  leaves  blown 
from  a  tree,  and  in  a  moment  their  lights  were 
quenched,  and  they  were  further  from  me  than 
grains  of  sand  blown  on  a  whirlwind  of  a 
thousand  years. 

Then  he,  that  terrible  one.  Master  of  Illu- 
sions, let  fall  the  stone,  and  it  sank  into  the 
abyss  and  fell  immeasurably  into  the  infinite. 
And  under  my  feet  the  world  was  as  a  falling 
wave,  and  was  not.  And  I  fell,  though  with- 
out sound,  without  motion.  And  for  years 
and  years  I  fell  below  the  dim  waning  of 
light;  and  for  years  and  years  I  fell  through 
408 


A  Dream 

universes  of  dusk;  and  for  years  and  years 
and  years  I  fell  through  the  enclosing  deeps 
of  darkness.  It  was  to  me  as  though  I  fell 
for  centuries,  for  aeons,  for  unimaginable  time. 
I  knew  I  had  fallen  beyond  time,  and  that  I 
inhabited  eternity,  where  were  neither  height, 
nor  depth,  nor  width,  nor  space. 

But,  suddenly,  without  sound,  without  mo- 
tion, I  stood  steadfast  upon  a  vast  ledge.  Be- 
fore me,  on  that  ledge  of  darkness  become 
rock,  I  saw  this  stone  which  had  been  lifted 
from  the  world  of  which  I  was  a  shadow, 
after  shadow  itself  had  died  away.  And  as 
I  looked,  this  stone  became  fire  and  rose  in 
flame.  Then  the  flame  was  not.  And  when 
I  looked  the  stone  was  water ;  it  was  as  a  pool 
that  did  not  overflow,  a  wave  that  did  not 
rise  or  fall,  a  shaken  mirror  wherein  nothing 
was  troubled. 

Then,  as  dew  is  gathered  in  silence,  the 
water  was  without  form  or  colour  or  motion. 
And  the  stone  seemed  to  me  like  a  handful 
of  earth  held  idly  in  the  poise  of  unseen 
worlds.  What  I  thought  was  a  green  flame 
rose  from  it,  and  I  saw  that  it  had  the  green- 
ness of  grass,  and  had  the  mystery  of  life. 
The  green  herb  passed  as  green  grass  in  a 
drought ;  and  I  saw  the  waving  of  wings.  And 
I  saw  shape  upon  shape,  and  image  upon 
409 


A  Dream 

image,  and  symbol  upon  symbol.  Then  I  saw 
a  man,  and  he,  too,  passed;  and  I  saw  a 
woman,  and  she,  too,  passed;  and  I  saw  a 
child,  and  the  child  passed.  Then  the  stone 
was  a  Spirit.  And  it  shone  there  like  a  lamp. 
And  I  fell  backward  through  deeps  of  dark- 
ness, through  unimaginable  time. 

And  when  I  stood  upon  the  world  again  it 
was  like  a  glory.  And  I  saw  the  stone  lying 
at  my  feet. 

And  One  said :  "  Do  you  not  know  me, 
brother  ?  " 

And  I  said :  "  Speak,  Lord." 

And  Christ  stooped  and  kissed  me  upon 
the  brow. 


410 


NOTES 


Unity  does  not  lie  in  the  emotional  life  of  expression 
which  we  call  Art,  which  discerns  it;  it  does  not  lie  in 
nature,  but  in  the  Soul  of  man. — F,  M. 


Notes  to  First  Edition 


THE  DIVINE  ADVENTURE 

When  "  The  Divine  Adventure  "  appeared 
in  the  Fortnightly  Rcviciv  in  November  and 
December  last,  I  received  many  comments 
and  letters.  From  these  I  infer  that  my  pres- 
ent readers  will  also  be  of  two  sections,  those 
who  understand  at  once  why,  in  this  symboli- 
cal presentment,  I  ignore  the  allegorical 
method — and  those  who,  accustomed  to  the 
artificial  method  of  allegory,  would  rather  see 
this  "  story  of  a  soul "  told  in  that  method, 
without  actuality,  or  as  an  ordinary  essay 
stript  of  narrative. 

But  each  can  have  only  his  own  way  of 
travelling  towards  a  desired  goal.  I  chose 
my  way,  because  in  no  other,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  could  I  convey  what  I  wanted  to  convey. 
Is  it  so  great  an  effort  of  the  imagination  to 
conceive  of  the  Mind  and  the  Soul  actual  as 
the  Body  is  actual?  And  is  there  any  tragic 
issue  so  momentous,  among  all  the  tragic 
issues  of  life,  as  the  problem  of  the  Spirit,  the 

413 


Notes 

Mind — the  Will  as  I  call  it;  that  problem  as 
to  whether  it  has  to  share  the  assured  des- 
tiny of  the  Body,  or  the  desired  and  possible 
destiny  of  the  Soul?  There  is  no  spiritual 
tragedy  so  poignant  as  this  uncertainty  of 
the  Will,  the  Spirit,  what  we  call  the  thinking 
part  of  us,  before  the  occult  word  of  the 
Soul,  inhabiting  here  but  as  an  impatient 
exile,  and  the  inevitable  end  of  that  Body  to 
which  it  is  so  intimately  allied,  with  which 
are  its  immediate,  and  in  a  sense  its  most 
vital  interests,  and  in  whose  mortality  it 
would  seem  to  have  a  dreadful  share. 

The  symbolist,  unlike  the  allegorist,  cannot 
disregard  the  actual,  the  reality  as  it  seems : 
he  must,  indeed,  be  supremely  heedful  of  this 
reality  as  it  seems.  The  symbolist  or  the 
mystic  (properly  they  are  one)  abhors  the 
vague,  what  is  called  the  "  mystical  " :  he  is 
supremely  a  realist,  but  his  realism  is  of  the 
spirit  and  the  imagination,  and  not  of  exter- 
nals, or  rather  not  of  these  merely,  for  there, 
too,  he  will  not  disregard  actuality,  but  make 
it  his  base,  as  the  lark  touches  the  solid  earth 
before  it  rises  where  it  can  see  both  Earth 
and  Heaven  and  sing  a  song  that  partakes  of 
each  and  belongs  to  both.  "  In  the  kingdom 
of  the  imagination  the  ideal  must  ever  be 
faithful  to  the  general  laws  of  nature,"  wrote 
414 


Notes 

one  of  the  wisest  of  mystics.  Art  is  pellucid 
mystery,  and  the  only  spiritually  logical  in- 
terpretation of  life;  and  her  inevitable  lan- 
-guage  is  Symbol — by  which  (whether  in 
colour,  or  form,  or  sound,  or  word,  or  how- 
ever the  symbol  be  translated)  a  spiritual  im- 
age illumines  a  reality  that  the  material  fact 
narrows  or  obscures. 

For  the  rest,  "  The  Divine  Adventure  "  is 
an  eflfort  to  solve,  or  obtain  light  upon,  the 
profoundest  human  problem.  It  is  by  look- 
ing inward  that  we  shall  find  the  way  out- 
ward. The  gods — and  what  we  mean  by  the 
gods — the  gods  seeking  God  have  ever  pene- 
trated the  soul  by  two  roads,  that  of  nature 
and  that  of  art.  Edward  Calvert  put  it  su- 
premely well  when  he  said  "  I  go  inward  to 
God:  outward  to  the  gods."  It  was  Calvert 
also  who  wrote: — 

"  To  charm  the  truthfulness  of  eternal  law 
into  a  guise  which  it  has  not  had  before,  and 
clothe  the  invention  with  expression,  this  is 
the  magic  with  which  the  poet  would  lead  the 
listener  into  a  world  of  his  own,  and  make 
him  sit  down  in  the  charmed  circle  of  his 
own  gods." 

Page  96.  The  Felire  na  Naomh  Neren- 
nach   (so  spelt,  more  phonetically  than  cor- 

415 


Notes 

rectly)  is  an  invaluable  early  "  Chronicle 
of  Irish  Saints."  Uladh — or  Ulla — is  the 
Gaelic  for  Ulster,  though  the  ancient  boun- 
daries were  not  the  same  as  those  of  the  mod- 
ern province ;  and  at  periods  Uladh  stood  for 
all  North  Ireland.  Tara  in  the  south  was 
first  the  capital  of  a  kingdom,  and  later  the 
federal  capital.  Thus,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Christian  era,  Concobar  mac  Nessa  was  both 
King  of  the  Ultonians  (the  clans  of  Uladh) 
and  Ard-Righ  or  High-King  of  Ireland,  a 
nominal  suzerainty. 

The  name  of  Mochaoi's  abbacy,  n'  Aon- 
druim,  was  in  time  anglicised  to  Antrim. 

The  characteristic  Gaelic  passage  quoted  in 
English  at  p.  98  is  not  from  the  Fclirc  na 
Naonih  Nercnnach,  but  from  a  Hebridean 
source:  excerpted  from  one  of  the  many 
treasures-trove  rescued  from  extant  or  re- 
cently extant  Gaelic  lore  by  Mr.  Alexander 
Carmichael,  all  soon  to  be  published  (the  out- 
come of  a  long  life  of  unselfish  devotion)  un- 
der the  title  Or  agus  Ob,  though  we  may  be 
sure  that  there  will  be  little  "  dross  "  and  much 
"  gold." 

Page  loi.     The  allusion  is  to  the  story  or 
sketch  called  "  The  Book  of  the  Opal  "  in  The 
Dominion  of  Dreams:  a  sketch  true  in  essen- 
416 


Notes 

tials,  but  having  at  its  close  an  arbitrary  in- 
terpolation of  external  symbolism  which  I 
now  regret  as  superfluous.  I  have  since 
realised  that  the  only  living  and  convincing 
symbol  is  that  which  is  conceived  of  the  spirit 
and  not  imagined  by  the  mind.  My  friend's 
life,  and  end,  were  strange  enough — and  sig- 
nificant enough — without  the  eflfort  to  bring 
home  to  other  minds  by  an  arbitrary  formula 
what  should  have  been  implicit. 

Page  102.  I  have  again  and  again,  directly 
or  indirectly,  since  my  first  book  Pharais  to 
the  repeated  record  in  this  book,  alluded  to 
Seumas  Macleod;  and  as  I  have  shown  in 
"  Barabal,"  here,  and  in  the  dedication  to  this 
book,  it  is  to  the  old  islander  and  to  my  Heb- 
ridean  nurse,  Barabal,  that  I  owe  more  than 
to  any  other  early  influences.  For  those  who 
do  not  understand  the  character  of  the  Island- 
Gael,  or  do  not  realise  that  all  Scotland  is  not 
Presbyterian,  it  may  be  as  well  to  add  that 
many  of  the  islesmen  are  of  the  Catholic 
faith  (broadly,  the  Southern  Hebrides  are 
wholly  Catholic),  and  that  therefore  the 
brooding  imagination  of  an  old  islander — who 
spoke  Gaelic  only,  and  had  never  visited  the 
mainland — might  the  more  readily  dwell  upon 
Mary  the  Mother:  Mary  of  the  Lamb,  Mary 

417 


Notes 

the  Shepherdess,  as  she  is  lovingly  called.  I 
do  not,  for  private  reasons,  name  the  island 
where  he  lived:  but  I  have  written  of  him,  or 
of  what  he  said,  nothing  but  what  was  so,  or 
was  thus  said.  He  had  suffered  much,  and 
was  lonely:  but  was,  I  think,  the  happiest, 
and,  I  am  sure,  the  wisest  human  being  I 
have  known.  What  I  cannot  now  recall  is 
whether  liis  belief  in  Mary's  Advent  was 
based  on  an  old  prophecy,  or  upon  a  faith  of 
his  own  dreams  and  visions,  coloured  by  the 
visions  and  dreams  of  a  like  mind  and  long- 
ing: perhaps,  and  likeliest,  upon  both.  I 
was  not  more  than  seven  years  old  when  that 
happened  of  which  I  have  written  on  p.  102, 
and  so  recall  with  surety  only  that  which  I 
saw  and  heard. 

I  am  glad  to  know  that  another  is  hardly 
less  indebted  to  old  Seumas  Macleod.  I  am 
not  permitted  to  mention  his  name,  but  a 
friend  and  kinsman  allows  me  to  tell  this : 
that  when  he  was  about  sixteen  he  was  on  the 
remote  island  where  Seumas  lived,  and  on 
the  morrow  of  his  visit  came  at  sunrise  upon 
the  old  man,  standing  looking  seaward  with 
his  bonnet  removed  from  his  long  white 
locks;  and  upon  his  speaking  to  Seumas 
(when  he  saw  he  was  not  "  at  his  prayers  ") 
was  answered,  in  Gaelic  of  course,  "  Every 

418 


Notes 

morning  like  this  I  take  off  my  hat  to  the 
beauty  of  the  world." 

The  untaught  islander  who  could  say  this 
had  learned  an  ancient  wisdom,  of  more  ac- 
count than  wise  books,  than  many  philoso- 
phies. 

Let  me  tell  one  other  story  of  him,  which 
I  have  meant  often  to  tell,  but  have  as  often 
forgotten.  He  had  gone  once  to  the  Long 
Island,  with  three  fishermen,  in  their  herring- 
coble.  The  fish  had  been  sold,  and  the  boat 
had  sailed  southward  to  a  Lews  haven  where 
Seumas  had  a  relative.  The  younger  men 
had  "  hanselled  "  their  good  bargain  overwell, 
and  were  laughing  and  talking  freely,  as  they 
walked  up  the  white  road  from  the  haven. 
Something  was  said  that  displeased  Seumas 
greatly,  and  he  might  have  spoken  swiftly  in 
reproof;  but  just  then  a  little  naked  child  ran 
laughing  from  a  cottage,  chased  by  his  smil- 
ing mother.  Seumas  caught  up  the  child, 
who  was  but  an  infant,  and  set  him  in  their 
midst,  and  then  kneeled  and  said  the  few 
words  of  a  Hebridean  hymn  beginning: — 

"Even  as  a  little  child 
Most  holy,  pure.  .  .  ." 

No  more  was  said,  but  the  young  men  un- 
derstood ;  and  he  who  long  afterward  told  me 
419 


Notes 

of  this  episode  added  that  though  he  had  often 
since  acted  weakly  and  spoken  fooHshly,  he 
had  never,  since  that  day,  uttered  foul 
words.  Another  hke  characteristic  anecdote 
of  Seumas  (as  the  skipper  who  made  his  men 
cease  mocking-  a  "  fool  ")  I  have  told  in  the 
tale  called  "  The  Amadan  "  in  The  Dominion 
of  Dreams. 

I  could  write  much  of  this  revered  friend — 
so  shrewd  and  genial  and  worldly-wise,  for 
all  his  lonely  life;  so  blithe  in  spirit  and  swift- 
ly humorous;  himself  a  poet,  and  remember- 
ing countless  songs  and  tales  of  old;  strong 
and  daring,  on  occasion;  good  with  the  pipes, 
as  w^th  the  nets;  seldom  angered,  but  then 
with  a  fierce  anger,  barbaric  in  its  vehemence; 
a  loyal  clansman;  in  all  things,  good  and  not 
so  good,  a  Gael  of  the  Isles. 

But  since  I  have  not  done  so,  not  gathered 
into  one  place,  I  add  this  note. 

Page  114.  The  kingdom  of  the  Suderoer 
(i.e.  Southern  Isles)  was  the  Norse  name  for 
the  realm  of  the  Hebrides  and  Inner  Heb- 
rides when  the  Isles  were  under  Scandinav- 
ian dominion. 

Page  118.  The  ignorance  or  supineness 
which  characterises  so  many  English  writers 

420 


Notes 

on  Celtic  history  is  to  be  found  even  among 
Highland  and  Irish  clerics  and  others  who 
have  not  taken  the  trouble  to  study  or  even 
become  acquainted  with  their  own  ancient  lit- 
erature, but  fallen  into  the  foolish  and  dis- 
creditable conventionalism  which  maintains 
that  before  Columban  or  in  pre-Christian 
days  the  Celtic  race  consisted  of  wholly  un- 
civilised and  broken  tribes,  rivals  only  in 
savagery. 

How  little  true  that  is;  as  wide  of  truth  as 
the  statements  that  the  far  influences  of  Zona 
ceased  with  the  death  of  Columba.  Not  only 
was  the  island  for  two  centuries  thereafter  (in 
the  words  of  an  eminent  historian)  "  the  nur- 
sery of  bishops,  the  centre  of  education,  the 
asylum  of  religious  knowledge,  the  place  of 
union,  the  capital  and  necropolis  of  the  Cel- 
tic race,"  but  the  spiritual  colonies  of  Zona 
had  everywhere  leavened  western  Europe. 
Charlemagne  knew  and  reverenced  "  this 
little  people  of  lona,"  who  from  a  remote  is- 
land in  the  wild  seas  beyond  the  almost  as 
remote  countries  of  Scotland  and  England 
had  spread  the  Gospel  everywhere.  Not  only 
were  many  monasteries  founded  by  monks 
from  lona  in  the  narrower  France  of  that 
day,  but  also  in  Lorraine,  Alsatia,  in  Switzer- 
land, and  in  the  German  states;  in  distant 
421 


Notes 

Bavaria  even,  no  fewer  than  sixteen  were 
thus  founded.  In  the  very  year  the  Danes 
made  their  first  descent  on  the  doomed  is- 
land, a  monk  of  lona  was  Bishop  of  Tarento 
in  Italy.  In  a  word,  in  that  day,  lona  was 
the  brightest  gem  in  the  spiritual  crown  of 
Rome. 

Page  128.  The  "  little-known  namesake  of 
my  own  "  alluded  to  is  Fiona,  or  Fionaghal 
Macleod,  known  (in  common  with  her  more 
famous  sister  Mary)  by  the  appellation  Nig- 
heaii  Alasdair  Riiadh,  "  Daughter  of  Alasdair 
the  Red,"  was  born  circa  1575. 

Page  130.  Columba,  whose  house-name  was 
Crimthan,  "  Wolf  " — surviving  in  our  Scoto- 
Gaelic  MacCrimmon — who  was  of  royal 
Irish  blood  and,  through  his  mother  of  royal 
Scottish  (Pictish)  blood  also,  came  to  lona 
in  A.D.  563,  when  he  was  in  his  forty-second 
year.  At  that  date,  St.  Augustine,  "  the  Eng- 
lish Columba,"  had  not  yet  landed  in  Kent — 
that  more  famous  event  occurring  thirty-four 
years  later.  In  this  year  of  563,  the  East  had 
not  yet  awakened  to  its  wonderful  dream  that 
to-day  has  in  number  more  dreamers  than  the 
Cross  of  Christ;  for  it  was  not  till  six  years 
later,  when  Columba  was  on  a  perilous  mis- 
422 


Notes 

slon  of  conversion  among  the  Picts,  that  Ma- 
homet was  born.  In  563,  when  Colum  landed 
on  lona,  the  young  Italian  priest  who  was 
afterwards  to  be  called  the  Architect  of  the 
Church  and  to  become  famous  as  Pope  Greg- 
ory the  Great,  was  dreaming  his  ambitious 
dreams;  and  farther  East,  in  Constantinople, 
then  the  capital  of  the  Western  World,  the 
great  Roman  Emperor  Justinian  was  laying 
the  foundation  of  modern  law. 

With  the  advent  of  Charlemagne,  two  hun- 
dred years  later,  "  the  old  world "  passed. 
When  the  ninth  century  opened,  the  great 
Gregory's  dearest  hopes  were  in  the  dust 
where  his  bones  lay;  Justinian's  metropolis 
was  fallen  from  her  pride;  and,  on  lona,  the 
heathen  Danes  drank  to  Odin. 

Page  136.  The  Mor-Rigdn.  This  euhem- 
erised  Celtic  queen  is  called  by  many  names: 
even  those  resembling  that  just  given  vary 
much — Morrigu,  Mor  Reega,  Morrigan,  Mor- 
gane,  Mur-ree  {Mor  Ree),  etc.  The  old  word 
Mor-Rigan  means  "  the  great  queen."  She  is 
the  mother  of  the  Gaelic  Gods,  as  Bona  Dea 
of  the  Romans.  "  Anu  is  her  name,"  says  an 
ancient  writer.  Anu  suckled  the  elder  gods. 
Her  name  survives  in  Tuatha-De-Danann,  in 

423 


Notes 

Vanu,  Ana,  and  perhaps  in  that  mysterious 
Scoto-GaeHc  name,  Teampull  Anait  —  the 
temple  of  Anait — whom  some  writers  collate 
with  an  ancient  Asiatic  goddess,  Anait  (see  p. 
171).  It  has  been  suggested  that  the  Celts 
gave  Bona  Dea  to  the  Romans,  for  these  con- 
sidered her  Hyperborean.  A  less  likely  deri- 
vation of  the  popular  "  Morrigu  "  is  that  Mor 
Reega  is  Mor  Reagh  (wealth).  Keating,  it 
may  be  added,  speaks  of  Monagan,  Badha, 
and  Macha  as  the  three  chief  goddesses  of  the 
Divine  Race  of  Ana  (the  Tuatha  De  Danann). 
Students  of  Celtic  mythology  and  legend, 
and  of  the  Tain-bo-Cuailgne  in  particu- 
lar, will  remember  that  her  white  bull  "  Find- 
Bennach  "  was  "  antagonist  "  to  the  famous 
brown  bull  of  Cuailgne.  The  Mor  Rigan  has 
been  identified  with  Cybele — as  the  Goddess 
of  Prosperity:  but  only  speculatively.  An- 
other name  of  the  Mother  of  all  Gods  is  Aine 
{Ami?).  Prof.  Rhys  says  Ri  or  Roi  was  the 
Mother  of  the  gods  of  the  non-Celtic  races. 
It  is  suggestive  that  Ana  is  a  Phoenician 
word:  that  people  had  a  (virgin?)  goddess 
named  Ana-Percma. 

Page     156.      Finn — Oisin — Oscur — Gaul — 
Diarmid — Cuchullin.     These   names    as   they 
stand  exhibit  the  uncertainty  of  Gaelic  name- 
424 


Notes 

spelling.  In  the  case  of  the  first  named  there 
is  constant  variation.  The  oldest  writing  is 
Find  (also  Fend),  or  Fin.  Some  Gaelic 
writers  prefer,  in  modern  use,  Fionn. 
Through  a  misapprehension,  Macpherson 
popularised  the  name  in  Scotland  as  Fingal, 
and  the  Fein  and  Fianna  ( for  they  are  not  the 
same,  as  commonly  supposed,  the  former  being 
the  Clan  or  People  of  Finn,  and  the  latter  a 
kind  of  militia  raised  for  the  defence  of 
Uladh),  as  the  Fingalians.  Some  Irish  critics 
have  been  severe  upon  Macpherson's  "  im- 
possible nomenclature";  but  Fingal  is  not 
"  impossible,"  though  it  is  certainly  not  old 
Gaelic  for  Finn — for  the  word  can  quite  well 
stand  for  Fair  Stranger,  and  might  well  have 
been  a  name  given  to  a  Norse  (or  for  that 
matter  a  Gaelic)  champion. 

Fin  MacCumhal  (Fin  MacCooal  or  Mac- 
Cool)  is  now  commonly  rendered  as  Finn  or 
Fionn.  The  latter  is  good  Gaelic  and  the 
finer  word,  but  the  other  is  older.  Fionn  ob- 
tains more  in  Gaelic  Scotland.  Fingal  and 
the  Fingalians  are  modern,  and  due  solely 
to  the  great  vogue  given  by  Macpherson 
—  though  many  writers  and  even  Gaelic 
speakers  have  adopted  them. 

Fionn's  famous  son,  again,  is  almost  uni- 
versally (outside  Gaelic  Scotland  and  Ireland) 

425 


Notes 

known  as  Ossian,  because  of  Macpherson's 
spelling  of  the  name.  Neither  the  Highland 
nor  Irish  Gaels  pronounce  it  so — but  Osh- 
shen,  and  the  like — best  represented  by  the 
Gaelic  Oishi  or  Oisein.  Personally  I  prefer 
Oisin  to  any  other  spelling;  but  perhaps  it 
would  be  best  if  the  word  were  uniformly 
spelt  in  the  manner  in  which  it  is  universally 
familiar.  Obviously,  too,  "  Ossianic  "  is  the 
only  suitable  use  of  the  name  in  adjective 
form.  Osciir  is  probably  merely  a  Gaelic 
spelling  of  the  Norse  Oscar ;  though  I  recol- 
lect a  student  of  ancient  Gaelic  names  telling 
me  that  the  name  was  Gaelic  and  only  resem- 
bled the  familiar  Scandinavian  word.  Gaul  is 
commonly  so  spelt;  but  Goll  is  probably  more 
correct.  Diarmid  has  many  variations,  from 
Diarmuid  to  Dermid ;  but  Diarmid  is  the  best 
English  equivalent  both  in  sound  and  correct- 
ness. 

It  is  still  a  moot  point  as  to  whether  in 
narration,  Gaelic  names  should  be  given  as 
they  are,  or  be  anglicised — or  Gaelic  excla- 
mations to  phrases  in  their  original  spelling, 
or  more  phonetically  to  an  English  ear.  I 
think  it  should  depend  on  circumstances,  and 
within  the  writer's  tact.  I  have  myself  been 
taken  to  task  again  and  again,  by  critics 
eager  with  the  eagerness  of  little  knowledge, 
426 


Notes 

for  partial  anglicisation  of  names  and  pre- 
sumed mistakes  in  Gaelic  spelling,  when, 
surely,  the  intention  was  obvious  that  a  com- 
promise was  being  attempted.  Let  me  give 
an  example.  How  would  the  English  reader 
like  a  story  of,  say,  a  Donald  Macintyre  and 
a  Grace  Maclean  and  an  Ivor  Mackay  if  these 
names  were  given  in  their  Gaelic  form,  as 
Domnhuil  Mac-an-t-Saoir  and  Giorsal  nic  II- 
leathain  and  Imhir  Mac  Aodh — or  even  if 
simple  names,  like,  say,  Meave  and  Malvina, 
were  given  as  Medb  or  Malmhin? 

It  is  a  pity  there  is  not  one  recognised  way 
of  spelling  the  legendary  name  of  Setanta,  the 
chief  hero  of  the  Gaelic  chivalry.  Probably 
the  best  rendering  is  Cuchulain.  The  old  form 
is  Cuculaind.  But  colloquially  the  name  in 
Gaelic  is  called  Coohoolin  or  Coohullun ; 
and  so  Cuculaind  would  mislead  the  ordinary 
reader.  The  Scottish  version  is  generally 
Cuchullin — the  ch  soft:  a  more  correct  ren- 
dering of  the  Macphersonian  Cuthullin,  a 
misnomer  responsible  no  doubt  for  the  com- 
mon mistake  that  the  Coolin  (Cuthullin) 
mountains  in  Skye  have  any  connection  with 
the  great  Gaelic  hero  (see  p.  155).  Setanta, 
a  prince  of  Uladh,  was  taught  for  a  time  in 
the  art  of  weaponry  by  one  Culain  or  Culaind, 
and  after  a  certain  famous  act  of  prowess  be- 
427 


Notes 

came  known  as  The  Hound  of  Culain — Cu 
being  a  hound,  whence  Cuculain,  or  with  the 
sign  of  the  genitive,  Cuchulain.  Every  vari- 
ation of  the  name,  and  all  the  legends  of 
the  Cuchullin  cycle,  will  be  found  in  Miss 
Eleanor  Hull's  excellent  redaction,  pubHshed 
by  Mr.  Nutt.  The  interested  reader  should 
see  also  the  classical  work  of  O'Curry:  the 
vivid  and  romantic  chronicle  of  Mr.  Standish 
O'Grady;  and  the  fascinating  and  scholarly 
edition  of  The  Feast  of  Bricrin,  recently  pub- 
lished as  the  second  volume  of  the  Irish 
Texts  Society,  by  Dr.  George  Henderson,  the 
most  scholarly  of  Highland  specialists. 

Page  162  seq.  No  one  has  collected  so 
much  material  on  the  subject  of  St.  Michael 
as  Mr.  Alexander  Carmichael  has  done.  Some 
of  his  lore,  in  sheiling-hymns  and  fishing- 
hymns,  he  has  already  made  widely  known, 
directly  and  indirectly :  but  in  his  forthcoming 
Or  agus  Ob,  already  alluded  to,  there  will  be 
found  a  long  and  invaluable  section  devoted 
to  St.  Micheil,  as  also,  I  understand,  one  of 
like  length  and  interest  on  St.  Bride  or  Bri- 
get,  the  most  beloved  of  Hebridean  saints, 
and  herself  probably  a  Christian  successor  of 
a  much  more  ancient  Brighde,  a  Celtic  deity, 
it  is  said,  of  Song  and  Beauty. 
428 


Notei 

Page  i8i.  Be'al.  I  do  not  think  there  is 
any  evidence  to  prove  that  the  Be'al  or  Bel 
often  spelt  Baal — whose  name  and  worship 
survive  to  this  day  in  Bealltainn  (Beltane), 
May-day — of  Gaelic  mythology,  is  identical 
with  the  Phoenician  god  Baal,  though  prob- 
ably of  a  like  significance.  The  Gaelic  name, 
which  may  be  anglicised  into  Be'al,  signifies 
"  Source  of  All." 

I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  Be'al  or 
Bel  of  the  Gaels  has  his  analogue  in  the  Gaul- 
ish mythology  in  Hesus  (also  Esua,  Aesus, 
and  Heus),  a  mysterious  (supreme?)  god  of 
ancient  Gaul,  surviving  still  in  Armorican 
legend.  If  so,  Hesus  or  Aesus  may  be  iden- 
tical with  the  "  lost "  Gaelic  god  Aesar  or 
Aes.  Aesar  means  "  fire-kindler,"  whence 
the  Creator.  (In  this  connection  I  would  ask 
if  Aed,  an  ancient  Gaelic  god  of  fire,  also  of 
death,  be  identical  with  (as  averred)  a  still 
more  ancient  Greek  name  of  Fire,  or  God  of 
¥\vt=-Aed?).  Be'al,  the  Source  of  All,  may 
take  us  back  to  the  Phoenician  Baal:  but  the 
Gaelic  Acs  and  the  Gaulish  Aesus  (Hesus) 
take  us,  with  the  Scandinavian  Aesir,  further 
still :  to  the  Persian  Aser,  the  Hindoo  Aeswar, 
the  Egyptian  Asi  (the  Sun-bull),  and  the 
Etruscan  Aesar.  The  Bhagavat-Gita  says  of 
Aeswar  that  "  he  resides  in  every  mortal." 
429 


Notes 

Pages  199-203.  This  section,  slightly 
adapted,  is  from  an  unpublished  book,  in 
gradual  preparation,  entitled  The  Chronicles 
af  the  Sidhe. 

Page  225.  The  Culdees.  Though  I  have 
alluded  in  the  text  to  the  probable  meaning 
of  a  word  that  has  perplexed  many  people,  I 
add  this  note  as  I  have  just  come  upon  an- 
other theoretical  statement  about  the  Culdees 
as  though  they  were  an  oriental  race  or  sect. 
The  writer  evidently  thinks  they  are  the  same 
as  Chaldaeans,  and  builds  a  startlingly  unsci- 
entific theory  on  that  assumption.  In  all 
probability  the  word  is  simply  Cille-De,  i.e., 
[the  man  of  the]  Cell  of  God — Cille  being 
Cell,  a  Church — and  so  a  Cille-De  man  would 
be  "  man  of  God,"  a  monk,  a  cleric.  A  much 
more  puzzling  problem  obtains  in  the  appar- 
ent traces  of  Buddha-worship  in  the  Hebrides. 
It  may  or  may  not  be  of  much  account  that 
the  author  of  Lewisiana  "  admits  reluctantly  " 
that  "  we  must  accept  the  possibility  of  a 
Buddhist  race  passing  north  of  Ireland."  I 
have  not  seen  Lewisiana  for  some  years,  and 
cannot  recall  on  what  grounds  the  author  ar- 
rives at  his  conclusion.  But  from  my  notes 
on  the  subject  I  see  that  M.  Coquebert-Mont- 
bret,  in  the  Soc.  des  Antiquaires  de  France, 

430 


AN    ALMANAC 

Our  Elder  Brother  is  a  Spirit  of  Joy:  there- 
fore, in  this  new  year,  Rejoice! 

In  January  the  Spirit  dreams, 

And  in  February  weaves  a  Rainbow, 

And  in  March  smiles  through  Rains, 

And  in  April  is  clad  in  White  and  Green, 

And  in  May  is  the  Youth  of  the  World, 

And  in  June  is  a  Glory, 

And  in  July  is  in  two  Worlds, 

And  in  August  is  a  Colour, 

And  in  September  dreams  of  Beauty, 

And  in  October  Sighs, 

And  in  November  Wearieth, 

And  in  December  Sleeps. 

"  I  am  Beauty  itself  amid  Beautiful  Things  " 

{Bhagavad  Git  a). 


4" 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 

By  Mrs.  William  Sharp 

The  contents  of  this  volume  represent  the  earlier 
and  the  later  writings  of  William  Sharp  as  "Fiona 
Macleod,"  separated  by  an  interval  of  ten  years. 
"The  Tragic  Landscapes"  from  The  Sin-Eater  were 
written  in  1893.  "The  Silence  of  Amor"  written  in 
1895  formed  a  section  of  the  ist  Edition  of  From 
the  Hills  of  Dream  (1896)  and  was  published  sep- 
arately in  book  form  in  America  in  1902  by  Mr.  T. 
Mosher  (Portland,  Maine).  One  or  two  of  these 
prose  poems  were  incorporated  in  later  work — in 
the  Introduction  to  The  Sin-Eater,  and  in  "lona," 
for  example. 

The  Nature  -  Essays  gathered  together  in  the 
posthumous  volume  Where  the  Forest  Murmurs 
(Newnes,  1906)  were  written  during  the  years 
1903-5  for  Country  Life,  at  the  request  of  Mr.  P. 
Anderson  Graham  (to  whom  the  volume  was  dedi- 
cated) with  the  exception  of  "At  the  Turn  of  the 
Tide"  which  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly  in  1906, 
and  of  the  fragment  "Rest"  found  on  the  author's 
writing  table,  after  his  death  at  Castello  di  Maniace, 
Sicily. 

The    titular    nature-paper    "Where    the    Forest 

Murmurs"  forms  a  part  of  the  second  volume  of  se. 

lected  tales  published  in  the  Tauchnitz  collection 

in  1905  under  the  title  of  The  Sunset  of  Old  Tales. 

412 


Bibliographical  Note 

The  first  volume,  Wind  and  Wave,  appeared  in  1902; 
both  have  been  admirably  translated  into  German 
by  Herr  Winnibald  Mey  under  the  titles  of  Wind  und 
Wage  and  Das  Reich  der  Trdume  and  published  by 
Herrn  Eugen  Diederichs  (Jena  and  Leipzig).  Sev- 
eral of  the  tales  have  been  translated  into  French 
by  Monsieur  Henri  Davray  and  have  appeared  in 
Le  Mercure  de  France,  and  will  eventually  be  issued 
in  book  form;  they  have  also  been  translated  into 
Swedish  and  into  Italian.  The  Tauchnitz  volume 
of  The  Sunset  of  Old  Tales  contains  an  "After  Ded- 
ication" which  may  very  appropriately  be  re- 
printed as  conclusion  to  the  present  volume  of 
Nature-Essays: 

"  Had  I  known  in  time  I  would  have  added  to  the 
Dedicatory  Page  the  following  tribute,  which  now 
I  must  be  content  to  add  here:  yet  not  wholly  re- 
gretfully so,  for,  with  its  recognition  of  a  new  and 
beautiful  justice,  as  well  as  a  rare  and  beautiful 
generosity,  it  forms,  because  of  the  great  deed,  which 
it  records,  a  fitting  close  to  this  book  and  Wind  and 
Wave.  In  both,  perhaps,  is  heard  too  much,  too 
often,  the  refrain  of  Gaelic  sorrow,  the  refrain  of  an 
ancient  people  of  the  hills  and  glens  and  grey  wan- 
dering arms  of  the  sea,  in  the  days  of  farewell,  or, 
at  best,  of  a  dubious,  a  menacing  transmutation. 
Decade  by  decade,  year  by  year,  Scotland  has  been 
more  and  more  entangled  in  the  mesh  of  the  crudest 
and  most  selfish  landlordism.  From  the  Hebrid 
Isles  and  the  mountains  of  Sutherland  to  the  last 
heather  walls  of  Cheviot,  the  blight  of  a  fraudu- 
lent closing  of  the  hills  and  the  glens,  the  woods 
and  the  waters,  has  shut  away  their  own  land  from 
the  Scottish  people.  Surely  one  may  hope  at  last 
for  the  coming  of  the  great  Restitution,  of  a  nobler 

413 


Bibliographical  Note 

ideal  ownership,  when  one  has  lived  to  witness  so 
great  and  so  significant  a  public  deed  as  that  of  Mr. 
Cameron  Corbett. 

DEDICATED   ALSO 
TO 

CAMERON  CORBETT,  M.P. 

whose  free  gift  to  the  people,  for  all  time,  of  a 
vast  tract  of  Mountain-lands  and  Loch-shores,  in 
Eastern  Argyll,  is  not  only  the  noblest  contempo- 
rary gift  bestowed  on  Scotland,  but  an  augury  of 
the  possible  redemption  of  that  all  but  'preserved- 
away'  country  from  the  grip  of  selfish  landowners 
and  from  the  injustice  of  fraudulent  and  often  in- 
iquitous game-laws." 


414 


Notes 

argues  at  great  length  that  the  Asiatic  Bud- 
dhist missionaries  who  penetrated  to  Western 
Europe,  reached  Ireland  and  Scotland.  He 
asks  if  the  ancient  Gaelic  Deity  named  Biidd 
or  Budwas  be  not  Buddh  (Buddha).  An- 
other French  antiquary  avers  that  the  Druids 
were  "  an  order  of  Eastern  priests  adoring 
Buddwas."  Some  light  on  the  problem  is 
thrown  by  the  fact  that  in  the  Gaulo-Celtic 
museum  in  St.  Germain  is  an  ancient  Celtic 
"  god " — the  fourth  in  kind  that  has  been 
found — with  its  legs  crossed  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Indian  Buddha.  It  is  more  interest- 
ing still  to  note  that  in  the  Hebrides  spirits 
are  sometimes  called  Boduchas  or  Buddachs, 
and  that  the  same  word  is  (or  used  to  be)  ap- 
plied to  heads  of  families,  as  the  Master. 

Pages  242,  248.  These  two  sections,  rear- 
ranged, and  in  part  rewritten,  are  excerpted 
from  what  I  wrote  in  lona,  some  five  years 
ago,  for  a  preface  to  The  Sin-Eater. 

Page  256.  In  its  original  form  this  was 
written  about  a  book  of  great  interest  and 
beauty,  The  Shadozv  of  Arvor:  Legendary 
Romances  of  Brittany.  Translated  and  re- 
told by  Edith  Wingate  Rinder. 

Arvor  (or  Armor)    is   one   of    the   bardic 

431 


Notes 

equivalents  of  Armorica,  as  Brittany  is  called 
in  many  old  tales.  The  name  means  the  Sea- 
Washed  Land,  Vor  or  Mor  being  Breton  for 
"  sea,"  as  in  the  famous  region  Morbihan,  the 
Little  Sea.  Neither  the  Bretons  nor  their 
Cymric  kindred,  however,  call  Brittany  Arvor, 
or  the  Latinised  Armorica.  Arvor  is  the 
poetic  name  of  a  portion  of  Basse  Bretagne 
only.  Bretons  call  Brittany  Breis,  and  their 
language  Brezoned,  and  themselves  Breizia- 
ded  (singular  Breiziad) — as  they  keep  to 
the  French  differentiation  of  Bretagne  and 
Grande  Bretagne  in  Bro-Zaos,  the  Saxon- 
Land,  as  they  speak  of  France  (beyond  Brit- 
tany), as  Bro-chall,  the  Land  of  Gaul.  In 
Gaelic  I  think  Brittany  is  always  spoken  of 
as  Breatunn-Beag,  Little  Britain.  The  Welsh 
call  the  country,  its  people,  and  language, 
Llydaw,  Llydawiaid,  Llydawaeg. 

F.  M. 


432 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 

By  Mrs.  William  Sharp 

The  first  edition  of  The  Divine  Adventure:  lona: 
By  Sundown  Shores  was  published  in  1900  by  Messrs. 
Chapman  and  Hall.  The  Titular  Essay  (since  re- 
vised) appeared  first  in  The  Fortnightly  Review  for 
November  and  December,  1899.  A  large  portion 
of  "lona"  (though  in  different  sequence)  appeared 
also  in  The  Fortnightly,  March  and  April,  1900. 
Both  "spiritual  histories "  were  published  separately 
in  book  form  in  America  by  Mr.  T.  Mosher  ;  "lona," 
curtailed  and  rearranged  under  the  title  of  "The 
Isle  of  Dreams,"  in  1905.  The  Essay  "Celtic"  in  its 
original  form,  first  printed  in  The  Contemporary 
Review,  will  now  be  found,  revised  and  materially 
added  to,  in  "The  Winged  Destiny."  In  this  Uniform 
Edition  of  the  writings  of  "Fiona  Macleod"  (Will- 
iam Sharp)  the  following  stories,  etc.,  have  been 
transferred  to  the  present  volume:  "The  White 
Fever"  and  "The  Smoothing  of  the  Hand"  from 
The  Sin-Eater;  "The  White  Heron"  which  relates 
to  the  earlier  story  of  Mary  Maclean  in  Pharais,  is 
from  The  Dominion  of  Dreams,  and  in  its  earliest 
version  appeared  with  illustrations  in  the  Christmas 
number  of  Harper  in  1898.  "A  Dream"  appeared 
first  in  the  Theosophical  Review  of  September,  1904. 
Finally  I  have  added  to  this  volume  the  latter  por- 
tion and  some  detached  fragments  from  Green  Fire,  a 

433 


Bibliographical  Note 

Romance  by  "Fiona  Macleod"  dealing  with  Brit- 
tany and  the  Hebrid  Isles  and  published  in  1896  by 
Messrs.  A.  Constable,  and  in  America  by  Messrs. 
Harper  Bros.  But  William  Sharp  considered  that 
the  book  suffered  from  grave  defects  of  design  and 
construction  and  decided  that,  when  out  of  print,  it 
should  not  be  republished.  "The  Herdsman," 
however,  is — as  he  stated  in  a  note  to  the  first  Edi- 
tion of  The  Dominion  of  Dreams  "a  re-written  and 
materially  altered  version  of  the  Hebridean  part  of 
Green  Fire  of  which  book  it  is  all  I  care  to  preserve." 
Nevertheless,  in  accordance  with  the  wishes  of  sev- 
eral friends,  I  have  very  willingly  put  together  a 
series  of  detached  fragments  from  the  book  and 
placed  them  beside  "The  Herdsman"  as,  in  our 
opinion  equally  worthy  of  preservation,  since  the 
author's  prohibition  precludes  the  possibility  of 
reprinting  the  book  in  its  entirety. 


434 


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